


The Catalyst

by flightlessons



Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: The Original Series
Genre: Female Character of Color, Female Protagonist, Love Triangles, M/M, Major Original Character(s), Original Character(s), POV Original Character, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-11
Updated: 2013-06-11
Packaged: 2017-12-14 17:18:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 11
Words: 24,232
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/839391
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flightlessons/pseuds/flightlessons
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When a strange woman sneaks on board the USS Enterprise, the lives of its crew drastically change.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. In Vivo

**Author's Note:**

> This piece was written back in 2010 and was initially intended to be longer, but I figured in its current condition it was still worth sharing.

She pressed the digital clipboard to her chest. They were talking. They wouldn’t look up. They were talking. Business. Important business. They wouldn’t look up. Her back straightened, and she tried to seem busy. The two pounded down the hallway at a brisk pace, half-arguing about the speed at which they should respond to conflict negotiations in some distant land. Please, don’t look up. Don’t look up.

The Captain’s head rose. Her heart skipped a beat.

He flashed a quick smile and nodded, keeping his attention on the matter at hand. His counterpart was even more engaged, and he did not notice her.

She held her breath until she could no longer hear their footsteps. Hastening her pace, she rounded a corner and ducked into a storage room. She sighed. That was too close.

She didn’t yet have a direct course of action. A private encounter? A grand entrance? Her manner of approach required precision. She faced Federation punishment for her crimes of the last week, and she would have to be absolutely precise to avoid such repercussions. She would have to say every correct thing at exactly the correct time.

It had gone easier than she expected, however. In fact, she hadn’t anticipated making it this far at all. The ship’s defenses were vulnerable to non-violent, peaceful incursion. So long as she did not attack anyone and avoided interrupting any of the ship’s normal processes—all while looking as though she belonged—she could likely avoid notice for several more weeks. Of course, she wouldn’t need that much time, and the goal was to be quite seen and, more importantly, heard… eventually.

A few more days of research, then. The people of this ship were simultaneously easy to understand and complicated in their motives and relationships. The main power-players were a tight-knit group—a handful of men and women responsible for the most important mechanisms and decisions involved with the ship’s missions and endeavors. They were all friends on some level, though their occasional bickering was more reminiscent of typical family structures.

In order to succeed, she would have to know them as well or better than they knew each other. Or, she would have to convince them she did.

 

*

 

She could feel every nerve-ending beneath her skin. They buzzed and tingled, made her itch. The tiny hairs on her arms stood at attention below the oversized blue uniform shirt. She felt cold and on fire. She felt inhibited and rigid. Her whole body was a study in physical reactions to anxiety and nervousness. It wasn’t a terribly illogical reaction to the situation at hand—not given the circumstances. It was, however, uncomfortable.

It took every ounce of control she had to pass through the doorway of the Bridge of the Starship Enterprise. There, she found some of the ship’s brightest and most powerful crew members, hard at work. They were tired. The negotiations between two planets on the verge of war had been exhausting, but successful. No lives were lost, only sleep.

This was a complication, nonetheless. Officers lacking the necessary amounts of rest were more likely to react in anger or with a stern hand. Still, she could bear the anticipation and stresses of her plan no longer, and the time had come.

She approached the Captain quickly and handed him a digital clipboard to sign. He did so without inquiring as to what it was. Sloppy. It was a stolen and generic engineering work order form for a problem that didn’t exist.

As she began to walk away, he stopped her, “What’s your name?” he asked, his eyes bloodshot but inquisitive.

She gulped, “Adamae, Captain.”

“Well, Adamae, do you mind explaining why you’re wearing a man’s uniform?”

Her eyes widened. She had not made a mistake. The shirt and pants were a more logical choice for movement about the ship, and there were a few women who opted for that over the more feminine version. She reminded herself to remain calm.

“It allows for me to more efficiently conduct my duties, Captain.”

His eyes traveled across her form. “You should put in a request for a more appropriate size. It’s… much too big!” He laughed and shot her a smile intended to be charming. “It does your figure no justice.”

She nodded. “Yes, Captain.”

After a few moments of her hesitation, he dismissed her. She made for the door, but stopped. Grand entrance it is, she decided.

She turned and walked behind the Captain, halting near a different officer. “Mr. Spock,” she said semi-quietly.

He peered intently into a viewing apparatus and did not turn to face her. “Yes?” he asked.

“Have you ever been to the Bilaren system?”

He straightened his back and tilted his head, “Yes, on two occasions, several years in the past. What is the reason for your inquiry?”

“I believe that I was there, in the human colony, for one of your visits.”

Spock swiveled in his chair and took a long look at her, “Impossible. You are too young, and I do not remember you. I am sorry, you are mistaken.”

“Not impossible,” she said loud enough for some of the others to hear, “A thing like a Vulcan coming to a small colony is not easily forgotten… especially when that Vulcan killed my mother.”

She stood absolutely still, eyes locked on him. Spock rose slowly to his feet. Behind her, Captain Kirk performed a similar motion and walked very deliberately over to the railing between them. In the background, the exchange attracted the weary attentions of Lieutenants Sulu and Uhura.

“That’s a very serious allegation, Miss Adamae,” Kirk warned.

“And completely unfounded, Captain,” Spock added. “I have neither killed nor harmed any living creature in that system: human, Vulcan, or otherwise. Both of my missions there with Captain Pike were quite peaceful.”

“Too peaceful,” Adamae continued, “for you to keep your hands busy elsewhere!”

“Please explain, Miss Adamae!” the Captain ordered, annoyance showing clearly in his voice.

She purposefully spoke louder. “Has it been so long that you cannot even remember your own conquests, Mr. Spock?! Or does every human look the same to you?!”

“You are referring to Mariana Dresoran.” It was not a question. “But, I did no harm to her, nor would I.”

“And, yet, she is dead because of your actions with her. You killed her!”

“You are incorrect. She was alive and healthy when we left the system. I was unaware that her life had ended.”

 “She was pregnant when you left! Alone, in a loveless marriage, to manage a pregnancy she could not survive without Vulcan medical intervention!”

The Bridge was silent. Spock blinked in disbelief. Kirk was the first to recover, “So… you are… Spock’s daughter?”

“I would think so, Captain,” Spock’s voice was forcibly calm. “A quarter Vulcan. I did not think such a thing was scientifically possible outside of a laboratory setting.”

“Barely.” Adamae brushed back a piece of her unruly black hair to reveal a pointed ear. It was not nearly as impressive as Spock’s, but it provided a good enough showing for her audience. “I was born two months premature… and even that killed her.”

“As you can probably imagine,” Kirk broke in, “we have many questions for you… starting with how you got aboard this ship.” He jumped over the railing and moved next to Spock. “Somehow, I doubt that uniform belongs to you.”

“It’s Spock’s. I pulled off the officer’s embroidery at the wrists. Both you and he rarely visit your living quarters. It is there and throughout the ship that I have wandered for the last two weeks.”

“When you stowed aboard in the supplies we took on at Malaya IV,” Spock deduced.

Adamae nodded. “I hacked the supply schedule. The only difficult element was forging my travel documents.”

“Serious offenses, all of them,” Kirk’s voice was stern, but not threatening.

Adamae said nothing. She stared intently at the Captain and then at Spock. The two studied her just as closely, comparing her more human features to the half-Vulcan’s and trying to decide how to proceed. The crew members returned to their duties, but were still listening.

“Perhaps,” Spock broke the silence, “we can discuss penalties at a later time. I have many questions for the young woman.”

“Your daughter, Mr. Spock,” Kirk corrected with a slight grin.

“Yes, Captain… my daughter.”

 

*

 

Spock was not a man devoid of emotion—this much she determined fairly quickly. He was only half Vulcan, but he was raised on that planet, taught in their ways. He’d embraced that side of him. He valued rationality over feeling, and, wherever possible, suppressed the latter in favor of the former.

But, what would a half-Vulcan Starfleet officer want with a human woman, if he despised his human side so much?

Maybe “despised” was the wrong word. Embarrassed? Fear of weakness? Certainly, there could be no worry of that! Even as a child, and with only a quarter of her genetic lineage Vulcan, Adamae was physically and intellectually superior to her human elders. Spock’s skills would be twice that, for sure, and he was at the peak of maturity. Even if he embraced every human aspect of himself as fully as he did the Vulcan, he would still be much stronger and logical than his colleagues—there would be no doubt in their minds of the fact. Yet, they would surely still respect him, if not relate to him more, bond with him more, if his approach mirrored his genetic truth.

Could it be possible that his obsession with the logical took root from an illogical fear?

With this analysis in mind, Adamae slid into an uncomfortable chair in Spock’s quarters. Her hand sprang to her chin, with the knuckle of her index finger lightly resting against her lips. He entered the room pensively, with one arm behind his back and the other straight as steel at his side. He paced for a moment before abruptly picking a chair and sitting down.

The first question was predictably cold and logical, and, rightfully, Adamae was prepared for it. He wanted to know how she determined he was her father.

“There were only a finite number of possibilities resulting in my conception,” she began, “and, many fewer were logical and likely. My stepfather—Mariana’s husband, even at the time that you… knew her—as well as many of our neighbors, told me that my real father was a Vulcan who had visited our planet briefly. Depending on the speaker, you either used special mind control techniques on her, or she was a ravenous harlot. Quite expectedly, this information was flawed.”

Training her eyes on a point on the floor, she cracked the stiff joints in one hand. Spock seemed to notice this defect immediately, and she tried to ignore his speculative glance. “I began studying Federation memory banks as soon as I could convince my keepers that I understood computing techniques.”

“What age?” he interrupted.

“Six earth years.” With his nod, she continued, “It became clear that humans and Vulcans cannot breed. They lack the genetic and bodily similarities necessary to do so without scientific intervention. I thought for sure that they must have mistaken another, less well-known species for a Vulcan, so I spent weeks researching Romulans, Klingons, and similar humanoid species in error.”

She slowly rubbed the offending joints as Spock looked on. Only her left hand gave her any trouble, but it was enough for the man to very likely be wondering what else about her was not created with scientific precision. The muscles in her face tightened. He did nothing specific to intimidate her, but intimidated she was, nonetheless.

 “Your reputation has grown over the years, though, Mr. Spock. Rumors of a half-Vulcan who willingly associates himself with humans started to pop up in the memory banks, especially in official Federation press releases. They tend to think very highly of you, from what I can tell.”

“My performance with the fleet reflects this sentiment.”

“Of course it does,” she switched to looking at him directly, “Your loyalty is clear.”

They sat in silence for a few moments before she continued, “I had to ensure that you were, indeed, half human, though. With enough searching, I found a scholarly article on the scientific process used to create you—though I had to learn Vulcan first to understand it, as automatic translators are blocked for those journals. It became apparent that their advanced science had accomplished it.”

“The news articles made no secret of which Starship you were assigned. The rest of my story involves the technical implications of tracking down the Enterprise and transporting aboard—all of which I am sure you have already surmised.”

“I have,” he agreed.

With her explanation out of the way, Adamae stood up and walked over to him. “It would be an exercise in futility to expect an emotional reaction to my presence from you.” His silence served as his answer. “I won’t pretend to understand why you avoid emotion like Rigellian Fever, but what you cannot provide as a father could perhaps be replaced with the lessons of a teacher.”

He leaned forward in his chair. “What lesson can I supply that the ship’s memory banks cannot?”

“Vulcan telekinetic techniques,” she smiled. “You and I both know that they are closely guarded secrets, available only to Vulcans. I’d say that it’s my birthright to learn them.”

He stood, as well, “The techniques are taught only in scientific schools on Vulcan. You were raised by humans in an Earth colony—to which you should be returned in short order.”

“You and the Captain can drop me off at the nearest Federation colony, if you see fit, and I’ll find my way. But, since that is at least a few solar days from our coordinates, and I have nothing but time, you could provide a few lessons before my departure.”

He raised an eyebrow, “But you are only a fourth Vulcan…”

“Then teach me a fourth of the techniques!”

Spock paced over to a computer station and turned on the viewing screen. He slipped into a chair there, but did not look at the device. His face showed a veiled mix of fascination and unease. “Which techniques did you have in mind?”

Without skipping a beat, “Mind-meld.”

“Impossible. The mind-meld technique requires years of intensive training to master.”

“Mr. Spock, you are adept in both the technique and all things scientific. Start with the basics, and I’ll master it on my own after you’re rid of me!” She slammed both of her fists down onto the computer station and glared into his eyes.

He stood and carefully raised both hands. The fingers were long enough to seem deceptively fragile. “It may hasten the process if I introduce it directly. In order to proceed, I must touch you, but I will not cause you harm.” With her nod, he gently placed two fingers and a thumb near her eye. Her jaw received a similar treatment. His head dipped slightly, and his eyes closed. “Mind-meld is not about gaining access to another’s mind. Save for a few species, there is no natural barrier to your access once physical contact is obtained.”

 “Then, what’s the trick to it?”

With his eyes still closed, “Oh, there is no trick, Miss Adamae. Vulcan minds are uniquely suited to reaching out to others, but, as with a human’s, it does not automatically do so. You must lower that wall to extend yours outward. First, however, you should learn the experiences of the recipient…”

The last word trailed off into darkness. She fell down an endless tunnel that burst into light. There, Spock waited—not seen, but felt. His mind was there, a tightly coiled collection of moving pictures without context and words that she could see but not read. She reached and the coil contracted. The words blurred, and the images turned white. She could barely make out the diluted faces of Enterprise crew members before her view was forced away.

Her own thoughts flew out from inside her, projected all over the space between them for easy viewing by both. He rifled through them like playing cards, discarding the meaningless drivel of specificity. She tried to direct him. An image of the old family dog was of no use to him, so she removed it. A pseudo-friend from grade school, the inquisitive faces of guards on Malaya VI—all meaningless.

In attempting to control the progression of useless memories, she hoped Spock would be too distracted to find the most pertinent ones. But, of course, his skill and strength made the task futile. With little difficulty, he found the one guarded image and ripped it from her grasp. All others dissipated as, brightly and clearly, it filled her entire vision.

Captain James T. Kirk. A moving picture of his upper torso and face, generally smiling or calm in countenance, shirt flickering between the different formal and casual uniforms she had witnessed. It was an amalgamation of flattering images derived from every time she’d studied him, set in an infinite loop.

Spock watched it intently until the progression repeated. “What…” The word was heard and seen, in both English and Vulcan. “…is the meaning of this?”

“He’s cute,” her whisper echoed as though she’d spoken it to a quieted crowd in an old-style theatre, “Don’t you think?” The words appeared backwards in front of her, and then degraded to pieces.

“You find the Captain attractive in a sexual nature?” his mental voice dripped with disbelief.

“Of course! He has that way about him!” But, while the sound of what she said went through, the words that appeared did not reflect her statement. “ _Absolutely not_ ,” it read, “ _but I bet you do._ ”

With that, the bright world of their connected minds jerked away. Her consciousness flew back up the tunnel and slammed in behind her eyes. She noticed a flash of surprise on the edges of Spock’s face before the strength in her legs gave way, and she tumbled to the floor. She kicked out to gain a little distance from him, but he did not advance in anger.

His face read nothing of the astonishment of an instant before, but it was furled in confusion, “You thought I might strike you,” he said with a tinge of concern. When she didn’t answer, “That is a most illogical conclusion.”

“When considering you specifically, yes, it is,” she acquiesced.

“Who else would you be considering?” he countered immediately.

She stared at him for a moment. “I think… I would have preferred a cold, emotionless father, in hindsight.”

Spock walked over to her and crouched down to her level. “To what?” he whispered.

“To a man whose only emotions are anger and jealousy.”

He gave a slight nod. He’d already guessed. Standing, Spock offered her his hand, and she took it. He strode over to the wall near the entrance and leaned against it. She stood motionless in the center of the room. Though barely noticeable, he seemed just a little less confident—almost shaken. His eyes unfocused in the dim light. She tried to guess what he was thinking but came up empty.

“But you’re not emotionless, are you?”

“Vulcans experience emotions deeper than humans. If we do not control them, they control us.” He did not look at her.

“It’s one thing to control emotion, but to suppress it to the point where you no longer experience it?” She tilted her head, “Or, to the point where you can convince others that you don’t.”

“My use of logic and reason is an invaluable asset to this vessel. In times of distress, it is absolutely essential.”

“And in times of rest?”

He opened his mouth to speak, but closed it again. Eventually, “It is useful at all times.”

“I think you will find, Mr. Spock, that this is not the case.”

She took a long look at him before departing.


	2. In Vitro

Mouth or nose. Mouth or nose? Mouth… or nose?! A timely decision would be preferable. One would certainly bleed more, but that wasn’t really the goal, was it? Door open. The Bridge. Time to decide: mouth or nose? Don’t forget the gun. What luck! He actually had it on him. Careful of the trigger. Left hand: phaser gun. Right hand… right hand… right hand: strike!

Kirk didn’t see it coming at all. Her fist connected with only a little more than two-thirds of her total strength, but it knocked him off his feet and completely astonished the crew. Sure enough, in her left hand was his phaser. She waved it around the room for effect. “Stay back! All of you!” She pointed it at the Captain and walked swiftly over to him.

He glared angrily at her, blood dripping from his lip. “What are you doing, Adamae?!” he sneered in a low voice.

“I’m sorry, Captain.”

Sulu inched closer into her peripheral vision. “What do we do, Captain?”

Without taking his eyes off of her, “Get Bones… and Mr. Spock.”

“Doctor McCoy to the Bridge,” Sulu spoke hurriedly into the ship’s communicator at his station, “Spock, too. Right away.”

Adamae snorted. One shot. She closed the distance between Kirk and herself and pressed the phaser to his neck. “Forgive me,” she whispered. She hesitated only a moment before applying her fingers to his cheek and forehead. As an afterthought, a thumb left the side of Kirk’s phaser and touched his jaw. She closed her eyes and searched for that barrier between her mind and his. It was there, plain as day. She pulled at it with every bit of force she could apply, and it slammed down. Kirk went limp beneath her.

His thoughts flooded toward her, overwhelmed her. Anger. Betrayal. Where were the others? Why weren’t they helping? My phaser… where was it? My neck? Pressed against my neck?! Intruder. Invader. Betrayer! Can’t… move…

She pushed past it—past the inner dialogue—deep. Women. One after another… and another… and another. She swiped each one away. The ship. “Starship Enterprise,” she heard herself say above the noise of his thoughts… out to the baffled crewmen and women. “My ship.” She smiled with a Captain’s pride.

“Spock,” she said to only him. “Show me Spock.”

Thousands of images crashed in. Missions, complications, games of chess—conversations far into sleeping hours. Choices. Fears.

Longing.

Adrenaline. Speculation. Compassion.

Heartache.

“No,” Kirk’s word left her lips. “Not possible.”

And, why not?

The sob that Adamae choked back was not her own. “He… would never…”

Footsteps. Voices. “Jim? Jim! Can you hear me?” McCoy.

“Do not touch them,” warned Spock, “Not yet.”

She pulled away. The images melted and fell like pebbles. The light flickered, faded. Quiet. She blinked. The Bridge, again. There, Kirk remained, uneasily propped up on the weight of one arm. He grasped her wrist firmly, keeping it at a distance from his temple. Sweat beaded across his brow. His eyes tore into her with pure anger and a little fear—violation and betrayal. He breathed heavily.

She let the phaser fall from his neck. It felt heavy, and her arm shook under the weight of it. Exhausted, she moved back and dropped the weapon entirely. Bones kicked it away. Spock stepped up quickly and applied pressure to her shoulder. A cold, electric feeling emanated from his hand, crept up her neck, and fogged her mind. Her head drooped, and, for a moment, she lost consciousness. Then, abruptly, the effect dispersed, and the world came back. She shook her head. Spock let go.

A security officer grabbed her arm and pulled her to unsteady feet. McCoy helped Kirk do similar, and Sulu returned his weapon to him. He tried to compose himself and, after a few moments, half-limped to his chair at the center of the Bridge. Kirk broke the silence to order Adamae to a holding cell.

 

*

 

Spock arrived moments after the force field activated on her cell’s doorway. She put one arm on it to steady herself and smiled in his general direction. He was not pleased.

“Mind-meld is not meant to be forced on a subject,” both Spock’s voice and posture were rigid. “Your unskilled and rudimentary attempts could have damaged him.”

“What if they did?” she grinned. “What would you do then?”

Before he could answer, a more composed Captain Kirk appeared in the hallway and marched slowly over to them. His lip was cut, red, and swollen. He narrowed his eyes at Spock for a second and then turned very deliberately to Adamae. “Mind telling me what that was about?”

“I’d love to, Captain. You deserve an explanation, and I have an excellent one prepared.”

“Captain,” Spock broke in.

“You’re dismissed, Mr. Spock.”

“I should—”

“If your services are needed, I will request them.”

Spock clenched his hand into a fist, but tucked it behind his back. “Yes, Captain.” He left, his boots clicking in the quiet hallway.

As soon as the door closed behind him, “You already know what this is about, Captain,” she began, “You should have seen everything I did—felt everything. I regret that my approach was so… abrasive, but I had to be certain. I had to know.”

“You had to know?” His face flashed a mix of uncertainty and fear.

“What puzzles me, though,” and she stepped away from the force field, “is why you haven’t said a word of this to anyone at all.”

“What would you have me say, and to—to who?”

“To Mr. Spock, Captain.”

“You can’t—!” he pounded on the force field and gritted his teeth, “You can’t expect me to—what would that accomplish?!”

She moved closer to the doorway, “A lot, I imagine.”

He shook his head, and she could see pain in his eyes. “Too _illogical_.” His choice of words was no coincidence.

“Quite the opposite, Captain. In my opinion, if you say nothing, Spock will live out the rest of his and your days as your loyal, emotionally smothered companion. He will never say a word to you on this matter. He will disclose no grand revelations of any kind. And, meanwhile, that ache you feel will remain, if not grow deeper and more painful as time goes on.”

“And, if I did… say something?”

“If you do, and say it well, what choice would he have? Lie? I don’t think he can bear it! He does not possess that much control, even though he pretends that he does.”

“Admitting something in confidence is a far cry—”

“Think of it this way,” she paced about the cell, “The sheer loyalty that man possesses for you is unheard of in nearly every species cataloged, including humans and Vulcans. That amount of devotion is difficult to control and keep hidden, even for someone as disciplined and stubborn as Spock. You,” and she pointed at him, “you say the words, and he’ll melt. That façade will disappear completely.”

“How… can you be so sure?”

“I’m not. But, given what I know about the both of you, it is the most logical conclusion.”

“Emotions are unpredictable, Miss Adamae,” he pointed out.

“That is a risk you are already willing to take.”

He nodded eventually and began to walk down the hallway.

“When do you plan on releasing me?” she called after him.

“I can’t have you running around my ship, causing harm to my crew.”

“Do you think I would?”

He sighed. After a pause, he left through an automatic door in the distance. A few moments later, the force field turned off.

 

*

 

The assigned quarters were small and suffocating. Despite exhaustion, sleep eluded her. It gave up perhaps three hours at best. Restless, she showered and then donned a gold-colored shirt they had provided. It fit her better than the stolen ones, but she did not prefer it.

She wandered into the hall and walked aimlessly for an hour or so before stopping in front of the Sick Bay. The rooms were mostly darkened, but the clicking sounds of someone’s old fashioned keyboard emanated outward. A sigh. Deleting. A fury of quick typing.

She crept inside and found Doctor Leonard McCoy hunched over his computer station. His face and its many lines were drained of color by the viewing screen’s white glow. His eyes were tired as they squinted at the tiny words.

“You’ll damage your vision working in the dark like that,” she warned.

He jumped, nearly out of his chair. In the dim light, she could see his eyes were round and fearful. His posture reflected this—he pushed his aging frame as far back into the chair as it would go. “What do you want?” he breathed. “Stay right there! You hear me?!”

She raised her hands in surrender. “I’m not going to hurt you, Mr. McCoy.”

“You’ll understand if I don’t trust you so far as I could throw you.”

“I do,” she leaned against a table, “but, I assure you, my motives are far more mundane.  I can’t sleep. Could you give me something?”

He stood, flashing her a glare that seethed with anger before walking into another room. Lights came on. He produced a syringe and checked it over for any problems. He did not attempt to hide his reluctance.

“You would prefer that you didn’t have to help me,” she observed.

“After what you did to Jim? Damnit, he’s a wreck!” His whole body shook with raw emotion. It washed over her in waves. It was almost refreshing.

“That was not my intention,” she said quickly. Then, “You are very—you care about him significantly, don’t you?”

“Of course! I’m not some robotic, cold-blooded—” Her laugh cut him off. Taken aback, McCoy snorted, “What’s so damned funny?”

“Are you referring to me, or Spock?” She tried to pull all emotion from her face and leave only a slight grin behind. He did not respond. “Either way, it’s funny, and terribly untrue,” she continued. “I’ve grown to like Kirk, if it’s any consolation, and my blood isn’t cold at all. Mr. Spock, on the other hand, maintains an agonizingly deep friendship with the good Captain.”

“He doesn’t feel!” McCoy spat, “He doesn’t—he doesn’t have it in him!”

“Incorrect.”

“You’re wrong! Biased! I see your game, young lady. You haven’t hid it well at all. Prove that Daddy isn’t just a walking computer, and you have your validation. Well, I’ve got a detailed medical report for you! There’s nothing there. Not a damned thing. Does that compute with you?! Hell, Jim doesn’t even see it,” he gestured with the dull end of the syringe, “but I do. Every emotion he’s ever had, he’s found a way to kill it. What kind of friend doesn’t have any emotions?”

“I don’t think you’re giving the Captain much credit. Spock is his closest friend.”

McCoy let out a scoff.

There we go. “With all your compassion, though, I’m surprised he hasn’t chosen you for that role. Doesn’t he see how much you care?”

“He’s not blind.”

“Then, maybe it’s something else? Some other reason?”

He looked at her with knowing eyes and shook his head. “No.” He rubbed his brow as though he had a headache, “No, the only thing Spock has that I don’t is his approach to everything with logic.”

“And yet, you’re number two.”

He gulped, looking as though he might burst into tears if she pressed any further. Sadness and resignation tinged his every feature. He did not deserve this conduct. It was callous and cruel to treat him this way.

“I’ll have that shot now, if that’s all right.”

It was a moment or two before he answered, “Yes, of course.” He pulled down the collar of her shirt a couple of inches and injected a few milligrams of an orangish liquid into her neck. The act was so gentle that she barely felt it. “You should sleep fine in a few minutes. If you have any more trouble, come back, and I’ll up the dosage.”

His mild treatment of her was unexpected, especially given her conduct and his propensity toward emotion. As the medicine crept through her veins, she patted him on the shoulder, “Thank you. You are a very kind man, Doctor McCoy.”

The last few steps to her room were labored. She fell asleep as soon as her head hit the pillow.


	3. Suspended Solution

The Bridge. Captain’s chair. View? Forward. Only forward. Crash! Explosion… the room shook. The lights blinked. The displays flickered off and then dully returned. Attack. The ship was being attacked.

“Shields down to 20%. Critical damage reported on the sixth, seventh, and eighth levels. Orders, Captain?” Sulu’s voice was unsteady.

“What’s… what’s attacking us, Lieutenant?” he said after a moment.

Sulu turned around and gave Kirk a confused look, “You don’t know?!”

“I… I don’t…”

His brow furrowed, and his voice raised, “Romulans. We’re being attacked by Romulans, Captain! What are your orders, Captain?!”

“Fire… phaser banks. Fire all phaser banks.”

Sulu sighed and slammed his fist down on his consol, “We’ve already exhausted them, Captain,” he growled.

“Photon torpedoes, then.”

“Captain!” Scotty broke in. “We’ve already done it!”

“What’s wrong with you, Captain?!” Sulu approached angrily. “What’s happened to you? We need direction here!”

“Where’s Mr. Spock gone?” Scotty asked, “Go to sick bay. I can do it until Spock arrives.”

“No answer from Mr. Spock’s quarters,” Uhura chimed in.

Kirk turned to Scotty and shook his head. “He’s sleeping.”

Scotty snorted and turned to a security officer, “Well, go wake him up!”

“Wait,” with Kirk’s word, the officer stopped in mid-step, “He’s not… in his quarters. He’s… in mine.”

Scotty’s eyes widened. He cleared his throat. “Okay… Lieutenant Uhura, try the Captain’s quarters.”

A sleepy response came over the intercom system, “Spock here.”

“Spock to the Bridge,” Scotty ordered, staring Kirk down. “You can explain this later. Please leave, Captain.”

“But… this is my ship… I command my ship!” he yelled.

Scotty pulled him away from his chair and promptly sat down. “Not anymore.”

 

*

 

Kirk woke in a cold sweat. “Lights,” he breathed, his chest heaving. His quarters—not the Bridge—came into view. He sat upright and swung his legs over the edge of his bed. Overwhelmed, he smoothed back his hair with a shaking hand. 

It didn’t take a psychologist to dissect the dream. Fear. Fear of losing his ship, losing respect, losing control—losing everything.

But, hold on. If the idea of Spock and Kirk… romantically involved… was the cause of the dreamed problems, then why would Spock remain a valid replacement? Wouldn’t dream Scotty declare both of them unfit upon understanding the situation?

Then, perhaps, it’s not what their interaction would do to the ship’s crew, but what Kirk feared it would do to himself. He could become unreliable or even emotionally compromised, couldn’t he? Especially in intense missions or violent situations. Act on emotions over rationality. Protect one vital crew member over another. Become completely incapacitated should something happen—

The thought brought a very real physical pain to his chest. Would he, even now, be able to perform his duties as Captain if Spock were—were killed? Never mind that he was absolutely essential to running the vessel, but just on an emotional level. Could Kirk handle it as they currently were and still do his job?

He wasn’t sure.

Assuming he couldn’t, what would really change negatively if they… became involved? Assuming he somehow _could_ handle it, would anything really make him unable to do so?

He didn’t have all the answers.

Well, what about the positives, then? Better communication, that’s for sure. More reliable, more open communication, more often. It might even lead to better cooperation and collaboration, which could actually make the Enterprise run more efficiently.

“Logically sound,” he said to himself and then smiled. Ridiculous.

With a smile still painted on his face, he stripped down to nothing and hopped in the shower. A cold one. Hot would have helped his sore shoulder muscles, but a clear head was more important. He gasped as the water hit him, closing his eyes for a moment. It soothed and numbed him. He avoided any thought of Spock or the predicament at hand, instead focusing on the icy water. Washing up quickly, he shut it off and stood for a moment in the quiet shower box. “What do I do?” he asked the synthetic tiling.

No answer.

What could he do? What should he do? Doing nothing wasn’t really an option. A talk would be necessary either way. Well, the amount of talking could vary depending on the desired outcome. He shivered and shook his head. And, what would that be, exactly? What possible expectation could he reasonably have in this case? For an emotionless…

Clothes. Clothes would be good.

Kirk slipped into a clean pair of black pants and began putting on his socks and boots. A knock. “One moment,” he called to the visitor. He zipped up his shoes and sprinted over to his closet. Casual. He pulled a gold Captain’s shirt over his head as he walked to the door. Pushing a button, it unlocked and opened.

There, Spock stood, both arms tucked behind his back, eyes on the floor. His head snapped up in an instant. The muscles in his face and neck tightened.

When he did not immediately speak, Kirk forced an uneasy smile, “Mr. Spock! To what do I owe the visit?”

He hesitated. Kirk took a step out into the hall and leaned on the doorway, folding his arms across his chest.

After a moment, “I wanted to apologize.” Another long pause. “For the incident with Adamae on the Bridge. It was inappropriate and will not happen again.”

“No need, Mr. Spock,” he laughed a little, “Despite your… blood relation, you barely know the girl!”

“Irrelevant. She specifically asked to learn the mind-meld technique, and I should have suspected that she intended to use it. She is my responsibility until other arrangements can be made, and I did not monitor her actions carefully enough.”

“She’s my responsibility, too,” he reminded him, “along with everyone else on this ship.”

“Still, Captain.”

“You are too hard on yourself, Mr. Spock,” he took one careful step closer. “I forgive you, nonetheless.”

He nodded and turned to leave. Unsatisfied, Kirk put one hand on Spock’s shoulder. The Vulcan half-turned and gave a slightly inquisitive glance. He said nothing. Kirk gulped, his heart pounding inside his ribcage, “That… wasn’t why you came here, was it?” Not a chance.

“I can think of no other practical reason.”

“How about an impractical one?” Kirk shot back right away.

Spock moved to face him. Arm’s length. Kirk glanced quickly down each end of the hallway, but it was empty except for them. Eye contact. His heart raced.

Enough of this.

He closed the gap between them and gripped Spock by the back of his neck. Surprise flashed across his face. He opened his mouth to speak, but Kirk didn’t give him the chance. He pushed forward and kissed him, shutting his eyes. Spock remained perfectly still. But, Kirk refused to give up that easily. He took hold of Spock’s arm with one hand and pulled Spock toward him with the other.

The cold mask melted. Spock’s forearm found its way to the Captain’s lower back and, miracle of miracles, he kissed in return. The taller man leaned into it, and his fingertips brushed Kirk’s cheek. It felt like hours, but the moment was over in a flash as Spock pulled away. Kirk’s eyes reluctantly opened. Concern—worry—unmistakable longing. The rarely seen emotions were clear in Spock’s expression. “Jim…” he breathed.

Kirk nervously motioned his head in the direction of his quarters, “We can talk.”

Deep in thought, Spock ran the fabric of Kirk’s shirt through his fingers. Eventually, he nodded and let Kirk go. The Vulcan ducked into the room abruptly, his counterpart following soon after.

The door closed behind them, and he locked it. Turning, he found Spock mere inches away, eyes lit up with obvious intentions. No talking, then. The Vulcan advanced, pressing Kirk against the door. He kissed him deeply before moving on to Kirk’s neck, near his jaw. He could feel every part—every muscle—of Spock beneath his thin clothes. It was overwhelming.

When it felt like he could bear no more, they backed into his bedroom, remaining connected. Kirk fell into his bed and quickly peeled off his shirt. Spock climbed on top, removing his, as well. His hand crept up Kirk’s torso and lightly caressed each muscle. His lips soon joined.

He felt paralyzed.

The shoes came off next, and Spock seemed to ponder how best to eliminate the final bits of fabric. Kirk obliged, sliding his hands inside Spock’s waistband at the sides and slipping the garment down. A twist—he escaped from under the Vulcan and flipped him onto his back. With a grin, he wriggled out of his own pants. He took his time returning to the bed. Spock lay uncovered, his bare chest rising and falling as he breathed deeply. His pale skin glistened in the warm light.

It took awhile before the subject realized he was being studied, and he reacted with a surprising amount of humility. Self-conscious, he covered part of his chest with his arm and pressed his knees together. He looked over finally. Kirk smiled wide.

“Lonely?” he asked.

He gave a slow nod and patted the bed.

Kirk bit his lip, sauntering over. Leaning in, “Tell me… what you want.”

“Do you not,” he inhaled, “usually give the orders?”

“Hah!” he jumped on the bed, straddling his companion, “I wouldn’t dream of it here! Unless, of course, that’s what you wanted…”

Spock didn’t have an answer.

Impatient, Kirk kissed him again. He worked his way down the Vulcan’s chest, pressing his tongue into remarkably soft skin. He paused to have a look. Nothing particularly alien there, thankfully. He let out a small sigh.

Spock’s gasp was immediate. His expression, a mix of absolute enchantment, pleasure, and surprise, was a far cry from his usually detached manner. It was so… unlike him. Kirk relished in it. The act itself was—he tried not to think about it. Instead, he opted to watch his companion’s various movements. Back arching. Eyes squeezed shut. His hands gripped the sheets and held on as though his life depended on it. Lips ajar. Skin growing a tinge greener as his blood pulsed beneath the surface.

Before too long, the muscles in Spock’s thighs tightened. He bit down on the knuckle of his index finger and moaned something the Captain couldn’t understand.

Kirk waited until Spock relaxed completely before sitting up. His jaw hurt. He rubbed it carefully, so as not to bring too much attention to the problem. Spock didn’t notice. He lay exhausted and spread out on Kirk’s bed.

He stretched out on Spock’s abdomen and chest, resting his chin on his arms. Spock made no attempt to hide his grin. His fingers ran through Kirk’s hair.

“That was not necessary,” he nearly whispered.

Kirk shrugged.

“But… satisfactory.”

“Satisfactory?” He smirked. “We can do better than satisfactory!”

“Jim, I don’t—”

“What? You’re not… tired out already, are you?”

He raised one eyebrow, “No.”

Kirk crawled up lethargically and kissed him. He hung there for a moment, just savoring the taste—the feel of him. Incredible. Absolutely incredible. He took Spock by the wrist and pulled the Yulcan’s arm above his head, holding it firmly in place. At the opposite ear, he whispered, “Try… to relax.” He chewed on the earlobe semi-gently. Spock gave a labored exhale. He leaned into it.

A few more nibbles and Kirk’s hand left Spock’s wrist to fumble in a drawer by the bedside. He produced a small container and twisted off the top. Pouring a bluish gel into his palm, he recapped the container and put it away. It dripped down his fingers. He reached between the Vulcan’s legs. A gasp. One. His arm pushed forward. Another gasp. Two fingers this time. Spock swore in his alien language, but did not protest.

“Try to relax,” he repeated. “You’ve got to relax.”

Spock took a few deep breaths.

“Roll over… onto your side,” Kirk whispered. When he did, the Captain gave him a deep, passionate kiss and slid his fingers in as far as they would go. He pulled away and, in one fluid motion, pushed himself inside until his hip connected with the back of Spock’s thigh.

He yelped, half in surprise—half in pain. Kirk reached forward, grabbing Spock’s hand and holding it tightly. He backed out a few inches and returned, as gently as possible. When his companion seemed to recover, he moved a little faster and pushed a little farther.

Panting, Spock gripped his hand nearly hard enough to cause injury. Kirk ignored it. The room spun a little as the blood rushed from Kirk’s head. His vision narrowed. Heaven.

Faster. The Vulcan’s back arched, and his cheek lifted off the pillow. He pressed with all the force he had—and heat flooded out of him. His legs and arms felt weak. A wave of exhaustion clouded his thoughts and burned into his muscles. He carefully disconnected. Spock’s grip on his hand loosened, and he rolled onto his back. The hand was already beginning to bruise. Kirk didn’t care.

Defeated, he collapsed dramatically to Spock’s side. His chest heaved. Attempting to compose himself seemed pointless, and his companion did no such thing, either. The two lay apart for some time as their core temperatures cooled, the sweat dried, and adrenaline dispersed.

Kirk turned and threw his arm across Spock’s chest. The Vulcan grasped it lightly with both hands and let his lips rest there. Ecstatic and contented, Kirk pressed his nose into Spock’s shoulder.

So, what’s the catch? There’s always a catch, isn’t there?

“I could get used to this,” he muttered.

Surprised, “I did not think…” Spock stopped. Then, “That is certainly preferable.”

The Captain propped himself up on one elbow, “You… thought this would be a one-time encounter?” He tried and failed to keep the sting of the thought to himself.

His face showed worry and concern. “I considered the possibility.”

“Why would you do that?”

Eye contact. “Many of the… women you have been with met a similar fate, Ca—uh—Jim,” he said quickly, “Quite a few more than not.”

“You’ve kept track?”

“Difficult not to do so.”

He nodded reluctantly, “Well, that’s… not the case here, Spock.” When his companion smiled just a little, “Especially if you… would have me.”

“Yes, I would.”


	4. Synthesis

“How do I find the Captain?” Adamae announced to the quiet Bridge.

The trimmed down crew looked over at her. Sulu laughed and turned back to his station, “When he left, he said he was going to try and get some sleep. Captain’s exhausted.”

“I need to speak with him. Where are his quarters?”

“Oh, no. I’m not letting you go down there and bother him—not after that stunt you pulled earlier!”

“Then call him on the intercom system,” she insisted.

Sulu snorted, “I don’t even know if he’s there. He might be going for a walk or something. I’m not ringing him if he’s asleep in his room. You can wait for him to wake up.”

“Well, at least find out if he’s there.”

He sighed, “Fine.” He pushed a button and leaned down to the console, “Computer, find Captain Kirk—recent camera logs, hallways and primary facilities—last… six hours.”

“Working…” the computer responded, “…found: Captain Kirk. Two entries.”

“Play oldest entry.”

The two peered at Sulu’s station viewing screen. As the Lieutenant said, an exhausted Captain stumbled through the starship hallways. He leaned against the walls in places, and, when he got to his room, he practically fell inside. Poor thing.

Sulu shot her a quick glare. “Okay,” he sighed, “Computer, play newest entry.”

Outside Kirk’s quarters. Not the Captain but—Spock? He knocked. Waiting. Door open. Kirk answered. Talking. Arm extended—

“Well, I’ll be damned!” Sulu jumped out of his chair. “No way!”

The Navigator— Ensign Chekov—burst out of his seat to take a look. “I can’t believe it… zeh Captain… and… I can’t believe it!”

Their kissing session ended as soon as it began, but Spock did not leave. In fact, they both entered Kirk’s quarters.

Laughing, “Replay, on loop,” Sulu told the computer.

It started over. The two crew members watched more intently, giggling along the way. She smiled a little herself. It was true, then. Spock could feel. She could see it in his actions, in his eyes. He could feel. He did feel. He liked feeling.

“Look at Spock go!” Sulu pointed as Spock pulled Kirk closer to him. “Would you believe he could do that, Chekov?”

“Vell, I guess it’s not too surprising. You’ve seen zeh vay zey talk!”

“Oh, yes,” then Sulu smiled at her, “Looks like the Captain’s busy, Miss.”

“Doing what?” came from across the room.

Oh, no. Her heart sank. She swiveled on one foot and placed herself between the two video watchers and the newcomer. “Doctor McCoy!” she could not hide her shock.

Immediate suspicion contorted the lines on his face. “I—I’m scheduling physical examinations for the next week, since we seem to have some down time.”

Sulu chuckled, “Physical examinations?! They’ve already begun, Doc! Take a look for yourself!”

“No, wait!”

He pushed past her before she could move to stop him.

“Good God…” he mumbled just within earshot. McCoy backed up suddenly, knocking into Chekov, who nearly fell. He turned and bolted toward the nearest exit. She caught a flash of absolute sorrow in his expression before the door closed between them.

Damnit.

Behind her, “I never zought zeh Doctor vas so… un-accepting.”

“He’s not,” she shot back right away.

“Then how do you explain that?!” Sulu motioned toward the door.

Lie. Protect. Defend. Lie—only a little. “He’s just… astonished. Doctor McCoy is their closest friend, and I don’t think he saw this coming.” This was her fault.

“Zat makes more sense!” Chekov nodded and slid into his chair. Lieutenant Sulu did similar, shutting off the viewing screen. They pretended to resume regular duties, but it was clear that their minds were elsewhere.

Taking a deep breath, she strode through the doorway and took the elevator down to Sick Bay. Damage control.

Quite predictably, the Doctor was in. He sat tucked away at a work station. His mouth was obscured by the hand that covered it. He gripped at his stomach as though it pained him, and he was hunched over. She shot him a sympathetic look as she walked in, but he did not move. As an afterthought, she walked over to a windowed case and produced a bottle of brandy and two glasses. Taking a seat close to him, she poured some for both of them.

McCoy hesitated for a moment and then gulped the liquid down in one turn. She filled it again the moment it hit the table, and he drank it at once, too. She lifted her own glass to take a sip, but McCoy put his hand over it. “Aren’t you a bit young for brandy?”

She shrugged.

He carefully pushed the glass back down to the table. “You can’t be more than fourteen or fifteen, now that I have a close look at you.”

“Nearly nineteen Earth years. I age in a physical sense a bit slower than a full human, unfortunately.”

He laughed weakly, “When you get closer to my age, you’ll be thanking everything you’ve got that that’s the case.” He poured himself another small glass and downed it.

She corked the bottle, “Slow down. There is such a thing as too much medicine, Doctor.”

“I don’t particularly want to feel better, or at all for that matter.”

She patted him on the shoulder. “You’re hurting considerably.”

Silence. He didn’t need to say anything.

“There’s no reason your friendship with either of them has to end, though.” More silence. “But maybe that’s not it.”

He reached for the bottle, poured, and drank. “You know damn well it isn’t.”

“Yes,” she replied. “But what do you intend to do about it?”

“Not a damn thing.”

“Why not?”

“It’s a little late, now. And, it’s always been abundantly clear that there’d be no point in trying.” He coughed, “I’m no home wrecker, either, Miss. That just wouldn’t be right.”

“But you despise Spock! Don’t you think the Captain deserves better?”

McCoy snorted, “I don’t despise him—we just have our differences. Still, even if I did, Jim deserves whatever and _whoever_ makes him happy.”

“And you couldn’t make him happy?”

“I don’t have that kind of energy. I’m old and tired.”

“There _is_ a bit of an age difference…”

“Almost 15 years.”

She picked up her glass and took a long sip. He did not try to stop her. “Will you remain friends with them, now?”

“Not gonna be easy, but I don’t have much choice.”

“I’m sure it will mean a lot to them if they can count on you as a friend.”

“I’m sure you’re right.”

 

*

 

By the time Adamae got back to the Bridge, both the Captain and Spock were there. Each were perfectly composed and at their proper locations. Both had slightly damp hair. A shower session, perhaps?

Perhaps.

Chekov and Sulu were forcibly quiet. She approached the Captain tentatively and put her arms behind her back. Good posture. Head up. Slight grin. Breathe. “Captain?”

He turned his head and smiled radiantly, “Yes, Miss Adamae?”

“I would like to request that you do not drop me off at the colony.”

He blinked, “We’re nearly in orbit!”

“I am aware of that. I looked for you earlier, but you were… busy.” When he didn’t answer, “With Spock.”

“How… would you…” he replied in a low voice.

“There are cameras in the hallways, Captain,” she whispered.

His face changed. He sat back in his chair and put his hand on his chin. “There are, indeed,” he said finally. “Well, where would you like us to take you, instead?”

She inhaled, “Starfleet Academy.”

“Starfleet?!” Spock got up from his chair.

She turned to him, “It is a logical choice. I have no viable permanent residence, and I cannot stay here as a civilian.”

He shook his head. “But, what do you… want to do?”

She smiled, “I want to be a Captain of my own ship.”

Kirk started laughing uncontrollably. Spock’s expression was priceless.

“Or,” she continued, “I might be willing to settle for First Officer.”

 

*

 

“Are you certain about this?” she said in a low voice. Spock stood next to her on the platform, but she kept her stare forward—at Kirk and the transport room crew.

“I see no other way. The regulations are clear. You cannot be enrolled without it.”

“He won’t like you.”

“He does not have to.”

Their forms dissipated. They reappeared on the planet’s surface, at the end of a dry dirt path. In the distance was the home she’d known since birth—a darkish wooden structure, two stories tall, with yellow shutters on the windows. The small stable leaning vicariously on it was covered with a thick green moss. The breaths of two horses inside puffed out like smoke in the cold morning air.

She sighed as Spock began walking up the path. She followed, a few steps behind him. At the door, painted a deep green, but warn-through in places, Spock gave a swift and precise knock. No answer. He tried again. In mid-strike, the door opened. Adamae’s stepmother, a tall, gaunt woman named Jillian, took a step back from them.

“And where have you been?!” she snarled at Adamae. Her head swung in Spock’s direction, “And who is—“ She stopped. Her cracked lips formed a silent “Oh.”

“My name is Spock.”

“I know who you are.”

“We require a conversation with Mr. Dresoran,” he continued calmly, “at his earliest convenience.”

She looked them up and down. “Your father’s not going to be happy,” she warned. “Stay right here. I’ll get him.” She closed the door in their faces. Adamae could hear the wood floor creak as she left.

Spock turned and descended the steps. She followed him. They stopped near the stable, where she absently studied the horses.

He carefully placed one hand on her back. “Worry is not necessary.”

The door reopened. Louis Dresoran appeared, wiping dirty hands on an oversized brown shirt. His hair was graying at the ears, yet he looked formidable nonetheless.

“Go inside, Adamae,” he ordered. His voice and face were calm, but rage boiled beneath. She looked up at Spock, who shook his head slightly. Adamae moved away from the two men, but did not enter the house. He stepped up to Spock. “You’re not welcome here. Please leave.”

“Mr. Dresoran, I must speak with you.”

“I have nothing to say to you.”

Abruptly, Spock moved forward, arm outstretched. He took Adamae’s stepfather by the throat and walked him back to the stable’s outer wall. Once there, Spock lifted the man off of his feet. He gasped for air. “Parental guardian permission is required for a student under the age of twenty to enter Starfleet Academy,” he growled. “Please provide it.”

Spock dropped the man to the ground and pointed a digital clipboard at him. “Your signature, Mr. Dresoran.”

He spat in Spock’s direction. “No. I won’t do it!”

“Then transfer your parental rights to me,” he insisted. With a few presses on the clipboard, it changed to a pre-filled-out guardianship form. He pushed it toward the man once more. “We will leave immediately after.”

Dresoran ripped the clipboard from Spock’s hand and looked at it. “You got… something to write with?” Spock handed him a stylus pen, and he immediately signed it. He tossed the thing at Spock’s feet. “I don’t want to see either of you again.”

Spock grinned, “You will not.” He picked the device up and began walking down the path. Adamae sprinted to his side. When they reached the street, Spock produced his communicator.

Before he could speak, “Was that a logical approach?” she asked.

“It was the correct one.” He gave her a genuine smile. Speaking into the communicator, “Energize.”


	5. In The Field

“It would be most preferable if you did not let go, Jim.”

Kirk coughed painfully, “You’re… a little heavy…”

His shoulders burned and ached in the afternoon light. Both hands kept a firm grasp on Spock’s right arm, but he couldn’t hold on forever. His joints threatened to pop out of their sockets. The ground on which he lay was unstable. The dust and dirt that caked all over him could bring a sneeze or a deep cough at any moment. Several of his ribs were broken, and his own blood, which had seeped into the back of his shirt, was cold as it met his skin.

Spock held onto the cliff face itself with the fingers of one hand as his feet dangled below. His face showed no fear of any kind, but he did not look away from the Captain.

“Try and find a foothold or something,” Kirk groaned. “I might… be able to reach my communicator…”

Taking a moment to assess the situation, Spock eventually swung one leg to Kirk’s left and just barely caught a small outcropping with the edge of his boot. Carefully, Kirk inched over to help the Vulcan get his foot all the way onto it. The dried, clay-like dirt crunched beneath Spock’s fingers. A few rocks dislodged as he moved and fell deep into the ravine. It had to be over two hundred meters straight down.

As soon as his companion could steady himself, Kirk let go with one hand. His grip with the other slipped to Spock’s wrist. He reached back and fumbled for the communicator. Success! “Enterprise,” he pressed the scratched-up gadget to his lips, “Beam us up.”

Spock materialized on his feet. Kirk, however, was three meters off the platform and horizontal. Spock reacted soon enough to slow the rate of his fall, but he hit the transporter floor with a large thud, nonetheless.

He moaned. Spock crouched down and cautiously touched Kirk’s shoulder. “Remain still,” he advised. No problem. Everything hurt. He coughed, and that hurt even more.

After a few moments on the floor, he heard the transporter room door open. Footsteps. The noises of a medical scanner.

“What the hell happened?!” Bones moved Kirk’s arm so he could check the reactions to light from his eyes. “Say something, Jim. You’re not unconscious.”

“Taranko cattle… much bigger than advertised.”

With the help of medical personnel, Kirk got onto a gurney and was wheeled out of the room. Spock followed closely, “As we were preparing to leave, one of the colony’s farmers insisted I take a look at an animal that was having a difficult pregnancy,” he explained. “Shortly after I entered the enclosure, several males of the large grazing species became aggressive and broke the barricade. I retreated, attempting to escape to a building on the grounds. The animals broke the outer fence before an opportunity presented itself, however, and the Captain and I fled.”

They were in Sickbay in no time at all. The crew pulled Kirk onto a bed. McCoy rolled him on his side and began treating the wound along his back. Cold antiseptic. A shot rendered the wound painless. He took a pair of scissors to the remnants of Kirk’s shirt, and a small amount of pressure marked the incision.

“The farmer did not mention that his grounds end in a substantial vertical drop to the southeast. The cattle stampeded over the edge, and the odds were in favor of us joining them.”

Bones sighed. Kirk could hear crunching noises as the doctor put his ribs back to where they belonged. Flashes of blue light. Bandages. He carefully rolled the Captain onto his back, and medical assistants moved him to a more comfortable bed in the room.

“You’re gonna be sore for a week or so, Jim,” the doctor said, wiping his hands with an antiseptic cloth. “I can give you something for that if you want.”

“Oh, I don’t think that’ll be necessary, Bones,” he replied with a painful chuckle. Looking up at Spock, who stood perfectly still at his side, Kirk smiled.

There was a long, awkward pause. McCoy broke it with a snort, “The two of you damn near died,” he pointed out. “And you don’t have anything to say to each other—at all?! It’s not-it’s not healthy, damnit!”

Spock shot him a speculative glance before taking a seat on a stool next to Kirk. “Thank you, Dr. McCoy,” he said calmly. “Your medical expertise was greatly appreciated.”

Bones stood dumbstruck for a moment, his wide eyes studying the two of them. He grimaced, and his form was rigid. Kirk flexed his damaged back muscles against the pillows beneath him. Parts were still numb, while others had a dull burn. As his friends locked themselves in a silent rivalry, the responsibility to break the tension fell on his shoulders.

“Hey, uh, Bones? Could you… give us a few moments… alone?”

McCoy hesitated for only an instant and then nodded. He turned and left the room abruptly. “You’re welcome,” he mumbled.

“He’s got a point, you know,” he said as soon as Bones was out of earshot.

“You would prefer I had panicked?”

“No, no, of course not,” Kirk shook his head, “but I was.”

“You are human, it is a natural reaction.”

“It’s a little more than that, Spock! I could have lost you. I can’t—and don’t you forget that you’re half-human, too!”

“I was concerned,” he said eventually. “And I feared you would be further injured, or worse.”

Kirk reached out and caressed Spock’s cheek, “That’s more like it.”

 

*

 

“We’re going to be late,” Kirk mumbled just loud enough for Spock to hear.

“I am aware of that, Captain,” he murmured, keeping his eyes trained on the arguing diplomats.

It was the fifth day of this. Mining on a barren planet in this system had unexpectedly yielded a cache of useful and rare heavy metals. The nature of the operation had all three inhabited planets—each fairly developed and independent, but loosely cooperative—claiming equal shares to the spoils. However, the miners were nearly all from one planet, which wanted to break the initial agreement and lay claim to all the findings. This was obviously a subject of derision among delegates from the other two planets, especially the larger, highly industrialized one, which was close to exhausting many of its natural resources.

The Enterprise crew was called in on direct order from the Federation to oversee negotiations and to ensure that the disagreement did not escalate into a war. Luckily, progress was being made, albeit slowly. Since a direct three-way split on the resources did not take into account population sizes or specific needs—with one planet’s technology relying heavily on copper, for instance, while the others barely used it—an agreement had to be reached on each and every one of the metals.

While the crew was more than up to the task, they had a very important engagement to get to, and neither of them wanted to miss it.

A few more hours, then. They’d have to double-time it across open space, perhaps even quicker, and they’d miss most of the opening festivities, but they could probably make it in time—so long as they left soon.

Titanium was the last really controversial material. Spock seemed to realize this, as he stood and signaled that perhaps the group should move on to it, and indicated that once titanium negations were finished, their services would likely—and logically—no longer be required. The parties involved reluctantly agreed, and the smallest planet began its pitch.

When he sat back down, Kirk patted him on the knee, an act safely hidden from view under the table. “You read my mind,” he whispered.

He raised an eyebrow. “Hardly. It is a logical conclusion. The likelihood that we will miss the event increases as time goes on, but the tension necessary for militant conflict to arise has already greatly decreased.”

Kirk tapped the side of his head with two fingers and grinned. “Like I said.”


	6. Genome

Pivot. Her back heel tapped the side of the training platform. She lifted it a few inches, pointed her toe, and dropped it until the front of her boot connected. One arm remained perfectly outstretched, parallel to the floor and perpendicular to the one-inch wide partition on which she stood. With a flick of her wrist, the lightweight axe, in the forward advancing position, rolled down and tucked behind her. She bent at the front knee, contorting herself as far down to the platform as her body would allow.

Her heart, usually near-silent, beat against the inside of her ribcage. The sound of it raged inside her ears. She held the position for a moment longer to slow it down. Then, she pushed with her front foot and sprang upward. She spun to the left, flipped, and let the axe slip from her grasp. It connected in the distance with a crack. She landed on the back foot, pointed her other one behind her, and smoothly crouched to the floor.

After a moment of pause, she stood, straightened her back, and lifted the blindfold from her eyes. She blinked at the change in light and turned her head toward the panel.

Her main instructor, in the first seat, smiled and clasped his hands together, “Ninety-nine, five,” he said. “A point-five deduction for damaging my wall.”

Adamae squinted and swiveled toward the target. Damnit. The axe was well-centered, but it had hit low, and the edge cut into the wall below it.

“One hundred,” said the next voice, an entry-level martial arts trainer picked at random for the test. “Not my wall, not my problem,” she laughed.

The next two panelists also gave her a perfect score. The final person to weigh in, an aging woman with long silver hair—the Dean of combat training—sat silent for a moment as she pondered her score. She eyed a list of judging points and took a long sip from a glass of water. It was agonizing. A score of at least 95 from each panelist would be necessary to graduate with the full competency distinction with honors. 

“Ninety…” she paused again, “seven… point-two.”

Adamae let out a sigh. Smoothing back her dark hair, she gave a slight bow to the Dean. “Thank you. Your assessments are all reasonable and quite satisfactory.”

The panelists filed out of the room, save for her instructor, who strode to her side. “Excited for graduation?”

“Yes, I look forward to my assignment in Starfleet.”

“I’m sure you could have your choice.”

“We’ll see.”

“So, what’s next?”

“Optional training simulation in an hour, health inspection, uniform fitting, and a particle physics written examination.”

“Busy day.”

She flashed a smile, “I had six written examinations yesterday.”

He laughed. “Already take the Kobayashi, I gather?” When she nodded, “Carry on then.”

*

 

“None of these readings are right,” he reached up to the biofunction monitor and flicked it with his index finger. No change. The blood pressure reading was frighteningly low, while the temperature was high. He scribbled on the digital clipboard. Shaking his head, “There’s no way I can clear you with these numbers. I don’t even know how you’re walking around.”

Adamae sighed, “Did you consult my medical records?”

He snorted, “No need. There’s no way you’re healthy like this.”

“You’re an idiot.”

“Excuse me?!”

She sat up in the medical center bed and stretched. “If you’re not going to consult my medical records, then get your superior. I don’t have time for this.”

His eyes narrowed, but he walked over to a computer station and brought up her file. “Vulcan,” he said after a moment. He eyed her suspiciously. Sighing again, she showed him the top of one ear. He blushed and quickly hurried out of the room.

Sometime later, a much older medical officer arrived. He signed her clearance form and handed her an information card with the necessary codes. “That kid was incompetent,” she said, sliding the card into her pocket.

“Noah? He’s probably just nervous. Last day and all.”

“Lucky ship that gets him.”

“Without experience, the young never learn. Your respective starship assignments will do you both some good.”

She exhaled dismissively and sauntered out of the room.

 

*

 

“Scotty, can we push it to warp seven?” Kirk looked at the viewing screen worriedly.

“Only for a few minutes, Captain,” came over the communication system, “then we’re going to hit traffic.”

“Do it. We’ve got to get there within the hour.”

“Walking across the compound from the transport building will take approximately thirty-five minutes, Captain, other variables such as foot traffic notwithstanding.” Spock chimed in. “We will not make it in time for the beginning of the ceremony.”

“Sounds like we need to cut out that time…”

“As per regulation, switching to warp five,” Scotty chimed in, “We’ll be there in four and a half minutes.”

“Chekov… find us a good place to beam down near the largest amphitheater, preferably out of view,” Kirk stood and smoothed down his dress uniform. “Transporter room, prepare to beam two down to the coordinates Chekov provides.”

“Three,” came from behind him. There, at the door, Bones stood, already dressed for the occasion. He grinned, “You think I would miss this? Not a damn chance.”

Kirk laughed, “All right, Bones. Let’s go.”

The three of them left the Bridge quickly and took the elevator down. Hurrying through the hallway, “This is against procedural regulations,” Spock pointed out. Then, “You already know that.”

“I’m well aware, thank you.”

They burst into the transporter room and immediately took their places on the platform. “Energize,” he commanded.

Chekov’s short notice destination of choice was the roof. The sun was setting on the horizon, and a few stars peeked through. After a moment of searching, they found an access hatch with a cheap lock on it. A small phaser blast and it was open. They climbed down a metal ladder, rushed through hallways and down stairs, and finally appeared at the far edge of the main lobby. Out of breath, they took a moment to compose themselves, and Spock produced a ticket, which allowed for up to four guests.

They were quickly approached by a staff member—likely an early-year Academy student—who took Spock’s ticket and directed them into the massive auditorium. There were thousands of people already seated on multiple levels. The students were arranged by discipline, though all wore new, tailored uniforms with black scarves slung cross the neck and chest and left to hang at the back. On these pieces of cloth, the various distinctions each student had earned and majors completed were embroidered with the given department’s color and pattern.

In a corner, a sizable group of Starfleet Medical Academy students sat dressed in blue with white scarves. Bones eyed them as the trio walked down the sloping hallway. “I guess they’re combining the ceremonies now,” he noted.

“Makes the assignment process easier, I’d say, to have everyone in one place.” Kirk scanned the crowd, “Spot Adamae, yet?”

“She will be seated near the front,” Spock assessed.

“I assume the young lady made top of the class?” Bones asked.

“Your assumption is correct, Doctor.”

“And where’s our seat?”

“Right here, sirs,” said the attendant.

The seats were positioned right behind the lecturers, fourteen rows from the stage. They sat down with Bones on the end. He pointed across the walkway to a figure nearby. She sat perfectly still. Decked in embroidery, she had quite a few special honors chords in multiple colors. Dozens of points of light glittered across her dark eyes. While the others chatted amongst themselves, she stared only at the stage.

Kirk leaned close to Spock’s ear, “Do you think she’s nervous?” he asked.

“Difficult to evaluate. If she does experience this human trait, she hides it sufficiently.”

“Sounds familiar,” he chuckled.

The ceremony began only moments after they took their seats. A series of speakers came up and delivered the importance of teamwork, compassion for alien species, allegiance to the Federation, and why regulations would help them be better Starfleet officers. The Academy President harked on starships as large communities where every part was important. He took a moment to acknowledge all the disciplines offered and major tracks, and he praised the Medical Academy and its importance in the fleet.

The medical students went up first, and their valedictorian gave a long speech about respecting the human body through treatment. Starfleet students were called up in ascending order of GPA, making Adamae last. Each student’s name was called, his or her major listed, and any honors mentioned. Toward the end, some students’ credentials took an impressive amount of time to mention.

Then, “Spock, Adamae.”

Bones stifled laughter, which turned into a cough. “I wasn’t aware she was taking your name now, Mr. Spock,” he more than whispered, “especially your first name.”  Kirk shushed him. The crowd erupted in chatter at the sound of such a familiar name, but the announcer lifted his hand to signal their silence.

“Starfleet Academy First-in-Class, Command Track; Advanced Theoretical Physics, High Honors; Astrophysical Engineering, High Honors; Probability Mechanics, High Honors; Navigation and Interstellar Mapping, High Honors; Combat Training, Honors, concentration in phaser marksmanship and hand-to-hand combat; Presidential Award for Academic Excellence; Dean’s Award for Group Leadership; and Iota Delta Epsilon Honor Society Scholar in Astrophysics.” He took a breath, “It is with my greatest admiration that I present you with the Federation Starfleet Academy diploma, which signifies completion of the program and a change in rank. At the completion of this ceremony, you will be assigned to a starship vessel based on your qualifications, commendations, and the needs of available vessels. Ensign Adamae Spock, welcome to Starfleet.” Clapping. He handed her an ornate folder that held her diploma. “It is your right at this time to say a few words. Is it your wish to do so?”

“It is.” She walked slowly up to the thin podium, which had the triangular Academy seal attached at the front. She produced a small viewing device from her pants pocket and tapped the screen. Then, “Today is a great day for the Federation,” she began, “One thousand, four hundred and thirty-six new ensigns will join the fleet, armed and equipped with the best technology and innovation they have ever had at their disposal. Supplementing the greatest crews in Starfleet history, these ensigns will become gears in a well-oiled machine held together by expertise, respect, ingenuity, and courage. There will be times of great peril ahead, and this is a truth we have all come to acknowledge. The struggle and the sacrifices made, however, will create first class officers, and the relationships forged will last a lifetime. This is why we enlisted, and this is why we will devote our lives to serving. We are no longer individual cadets; we are part of the whole, and it is to the whole that we deliver ourselves. Ex Astris, Scientia. Live long and prosper.”

She threw up the Vulcan salute, slid the viewing device into her pocket, and tucked her diploma under her arm. The crowd ate it up, cheering and clapping. She walked off the stage and returned to her seat. Bones giggled uncontrollably. “Live long and prosper!” he laughed. “Well, I’ll be damned if she’s not a real Vulcan now!”

Kirk slapped him on the arm with the back of his hand.

“Doctor McCoy,” Spock said without looking at either of them, “was your reason for coming to this commencement ceremony to ridicule the students?”

He cleared his throat and grew serious, “No.”

“What was your intention?”

He opened his mouth, but the President of the Academy had taken the stage again, and was giving the final words. He instructed the new ensigns to report to the lyceum in a building nearby in order to receive their assignments. Afterward, there would be time to commiserate with friends and family, and an optional dinner to attend. The new recruits filed out with the medical students going second. Lecturers and administrators followed, and the house lights came on. The trio stood and departed, making their way to the designated rendezvous point.


	7. Gravity

“You have made a mistake.” It was not a question.

“I’m afraid not, Ensign. You will report in two solar days—”

“No, I don’t think you are correct. The first in class student always gets his or her primary choice in assignment. Always. This is part of the distinction.” Pressure built inside her skull, and her whole body tingled with rage.

A line of sweat appeared from under the officer’s cap and slid down the side of his face. “I don’t make the assignments, Ensign. You will report—“

“Damnit, listen to me! I belong on the Enterprise!” she broke formation and grabbed the officer by his jacket. “What is the god damned point of graduating at the top of my class if I don’t get to choose which ship I serve on?!”

“Ensign!” came a thundering voice from across the gymnasium.

She turned abruptly, letting the officer go. “Commodore Senzo,” she practically squeaked. Her posture changed. Many of the others were staring directly at her, and some of the assignment officers had paused to listen.

William Senzo was a force of strength and intensity wrapped in a tight coil of a man who was barely an inch taller than Adamae. “You are acting dishonorably. You should be proud to serve on any vessel you are assigned.”

“Commodore,” she began very carefully, “I am happy and proud to serve on any ship, but I specifically requested the Enterprise because I am already familiar with it and its crew. I have shown nothing but the utmost skill and competency in my endeavors. Yet, my request was not honored, and I have not been given an explanation!”

He rested his hand on her shoulder and walked her away from the group. “The matter at hand was brought before the Academy board for review,” he said in a low voice. “While I and many of the board members sympathize with your wish to work with your father, it was decided that the conflict of interest and potential negative consequences associated with it are more of a risk than Starfleet is willing to take.”

“Favoritism would never become an issue, I assure you,” she pleaded.

“It’s not a matter of favoritism, Adamae. It’s dangerous to have family members working together because the collective is more important than any one individual. Upper level officers must makes decisions on occasion that result in the deaths of some of their crew. Wherever possible, we don’t want officers placing themselves in a position to make that decision more difficult.”

“But they already—!” she stopped herself. Her next words could very well result in serious damage to the Enterprise crew—particularly the ship’s Captain—and this was far from her goal. Instead, “What starship have I been assigned to, again?”

He smiled, “Mine. The USS Orion.”

She straightened immediately and clicked her heels together. If any other ship would be satisfactory, the Orion was it. “I look forward to working with you, sir!”

A laugh. “I thought you might say that.” He gestured with his right hand at a group of ensigns collecting near the lyceum’s south entrance. “Join the other new Orion recruits. An officer will give you more detailed instructions.”

She nodded quickly and strode over to them. The formation had a person-sized hole in it, and she found her way there.

“Nice of you to join us, Ensign Spock,” the Orion’s first officer, Commander Elizabeth Wells said smugly. She clicked Adamae’s name off the list on a digital, semitransparent scroll. “You have been assigned to primary engineering under Lieutenant Commander Zhou. Your focus will be propulsion and navigation. However, I understand that you plan to attend Command Academy digitally while you are aboard. Is this correct?”

“Yes, Commander. I have completed several credits already. When I am not performing my duties, I would like to continue my study.”

“When do you intend to sleep, Ensign?”

“I require far fewer hours of sleep than full humans, Commander, and regularly skip nights with little to no effect on my performance.”

She tapped on the scroll several more times and then scribbled something with a stylus. “As part of your duties, you will accompany Lieutenant Commander Zhou around the ship and assist her in missions and other responsibilities. This will help you get a better understanding of the chain of command, and what is expected of higher officers. Your engineering toolkit will be waiting for you in your quarters on deck eleven. You will report to the Orion via the transport building at five hundred hours, two days from now.”

Wells backed up to address the full group. “All of you should now have your assignments. If you have any relevant questions, please see me before reporting for duty. Anything pertaining to your specific posts should be directed to your immediate superiors. I highly recommend that you get to know each other, as ours is a six-year mission, and you will likely be aboard for the entirety.” She scanned the crowd dramatically, “Dismissed.”

Adamae turned to have a look at her future shipmates. There were a few semi-familiar faces to the right, but none she knew socially. To the left, they were all essentially strangers. Turning—

Oh no. Her heart sank. There, standing directly behind her, was a timid young male dressed in blue and white. His hands were clasped tightly together behind his back, and his bluish-grey eyes were wide. He looked directly at her, but his expression was that of fear. It was the inept medical student from the day before who delayed her health clearance. Noah.

“Ensign,” was his sheepish acknowledgement.

“This is going to be a long six years,” she snarled, “and I hope no one requires medical treatment.” She marched away from him and paused only a moment to smile at a fellow astrophysical engineering student named Gideon, who was a meticulous worker. At least there would be competent people working directly with her.

 It was a good ten minute walk to the assigned family meeting place, one of several student lounge areas near the heart of the campus. As she walked in, the three, who sat in soft chairs in a loose triangle, did not immediately notice her. Then, Captain Kirk looked up and produced a brilliant smile. He stood quickly, crossed the distance between them, and hugged her. She patted him on the back.

Spock stood as well, and McCoy did so stiffly. She walked past Kirk to the two of them, and gave Spock a nod. McCoy, however, received a big embrace, and she held onto him a few long seconds. When she pulled away, he smiled and gestured at her graduation chords. “You could sew a damn uniform with all that thread,” he laughed.

Kirk tilted his head in confusion, “You two are… friends?”

Beaming, “The young lady has kept me up to date over the years, through live video communication channels.”

“Well, she never called me!” Kirk blurted out.

“Difficult to do so!” she retorted, “What with you going down to nearly every single planet the Enterprise comes across! But, I did call you a few times, and Spock, too, to make sure you got all the essential details.”

“But why Bones?” Kirk persisted.

“I have a way with words, of course,” he gloated.

“He listens,” she corrected, “and he’s hilarious, even when he doesn’t intend to be.”

McCoy fell back into his chair dramatically as though injured. Kirk burst out laughing, and Spock watched it unfold with mild amusement.

After the laughter died down, she cleared her throat, “I have bad news.”

“The Academy board has forbidden you to serve on the Enterprise,” Spock said immediately. “I was informed via secure communication last night.”

Bones and Kirk looked at him with horrified eyes. “What?! That… shouldn’t be possible,” the Captain’s voice strained.

“Damnit, isn’t there anything we can do?!” was McCoy’s response.

“They fear a conflict of interest,” she explained, “No amount of protest would convince them otherwise.”

McCoy hugged her again. She was close to tears, and thought his shoulder might be an excellent location for such an emotional display. She looked up at Spock, and his face held a hint of disdain. She sniffed, and choked back a sob. Straightening, she reluctantly pushed Bones away. “I’ve been assigned to the… the USS Orion, engineering division—for a six year engagement.”

After a moment of silence, “Commodore Senzo… is a good man,” Kirk said slowly. “And the Orion is a more advanced ship.” He made no real attempt to hide his unhappiness. He looked heartbroken.

She stared straight at him, “I may never see any of you again.”

“Don’t say that, damnit,” Bones spat behind her.

“It is quite likely that you will meet the three of us, again,” Spock said finally. “And this can be arranged for Federation meetings, Starfleet joint operations, shore leave—”

“Any other assessment of my situation you would like add?” she only half-hid her derision.

His face was a calm mask, as was his usual. “Commodore Senzo has a record of avoiding risk-taking, at times to a fault.” He paused, and the barest hint of conflict flashed across his eyes. “I would be concerned if this were not the case.”

She shot a glance over at Kirk, who gave a slight nod of acknowledgement. Spock was learning. It wasn’t much on the scale of emotional expression, but she could hardly believe he’d made that much progress. Still, she couldn’t help but push it a little further, “And my assignment to engineering?”

“Well-deserved. As first in class, and with your choices in majors, it comes as no surprise that you would be assigned to engineering on the most advanced vessel in the fleet.”

She smiled a little. “Thanks.”

Kirk put his hand on Spock’s shoulder before he could reply further. Adamae assumed he would have said that it was a logical conclusion. “Well, I think we have a dinner to get to, right?” he covered, not so gracefully.

McCoy mumbled something about not being hungry. She backed up, “I have to go.”

The Captain’s face furrowed, “Another time, then.”

 

*

 

Adamae arrived at the transporter building early. Her new red uniform was tailored perfectly, but she pulled at it and smoothed it down. It was a man’s cut with pants, as she had insisted. She held a small package tucked under her arm that contained two identical uniforms—of a more casual variety—and one that was for very special occasions. Slung over her back was a soft case that held a lightweight axe similar to the one with which she’d trained throughout her three years at Starfleet Academy. She carried almost no personal belongings otherwise, save for a digital notebook in which she kept a journal and a videograph of her mother.

It didn’t take long to find the assigned transport room. She stopped outside the door and stood still, waiting. It was another ten minutes before other new Orion recruits appeared. The door opened at exactly five hundred hours, and the small group filed inside. They arranged themselves on the platform and waited for the technician. He called their names one by one and tapped his digital clipboard. “Lawrence, Noah,” he said before getting to Adamae. “Ensign Lawrence, Noah,” he said a bit more force. Practically growling “Ensign—”

There was a frantic knock on the door. The transporter technician sighed and pressed a button that opened the door. Noah appeared, framed in the dull light of the hallway. He looked a mess. His uniform package, along with a medical kit, and various other belongings were balanced haphazardly in his arms. His uniform was wrinkled, and he wore a non-standard dark blue medical jacket unbuttoned over a loose surgical grade shirt.

He hurried into the room and gave a nervous nod to the technician. Scrambling onto the platform, he took a spot across from Adamae, who shot him an annoyed glance. The transport tech went through the last two names quickly. “Welcome to Starfleet,” he said hastily. With a few movements obscured from view, the transporter lit up, and the room flashed away in a brilliant swirl of light.

The Orion’s transporter room was much more inviting. The lights were a warm yellow, and the walls were red and gold, instead of clinical metal and blue. A veritable welcome committee waited for them, including the Commodore himself, and the heads of each operational department. They stepped off the platform and lined up for inspection as the Commodore looked on. A youngish Chinese woman pushed past the others and started physically pulling ensigns out of line. Her long black hair, tied back, bobbed and swayed as she hurried along. With three others in tow, she paused for only an instant in front of Adamae. “You’re the Vulcan, right?” she said, squinting past a thick pair of frameless glasses.

Adamae wasn’t sure how to respond. After a moment, she simply nodded.

“Let’s go,” she motioned toward the door. “You won’t get a full tour until after we go into warp,” she explained, walking swiftly out of the transporter room. Adamae kept up with her, remaining only a half step behind and to the right of the head engineer. She did not look back to see the treatment of the other new recruits, but she was envious of their prolonged time with Commodore Senzo.

The group rushed through a narrow hallway and into an elevator, headed down. The engineer sighed. “I’m Lieutenant Commander Lang Zhou, if you haven’t already guessed.” The elevator stopped on a living quarters level, and she pushed the three others out. “Get settled in. Your tool kits are laid out in your quarters already. Take this time to familiarize yourselves with them. You’ll report for duty in two hours.”

The elevator door closed behind them, and Adamae was alone with the engineer. “My orders are to have you shadow me in all major duties,” Zhou continued, “but you’ll be put to work, too. You will memorize every—and I mean _every_ —single aspect of the Orion’s engines, life support systems, communication systems, transporter apparatus, weapons, etcetera. You will be drilled on Federation and non-Federation systems, power displacement and rerouting, small arms repair, resource management, and anything else I can think of. You will be routinely tested, and your performance will be recorded for Command Academy records. Is that clear?”

“Yes, Lieutenant Commander,” she replied sheepishly.

The Chief Engineer blinked. Taken aback, “You know, I’ve never gotten used to that.”

“To what, sir?”

The elevator stopped at the topmost engineering level, and the two exited. She immediately hurried over to a work station and began flipping switches. Pressing in a button, “Zhou to Bridge, warp drive is in optimal condition—no problems recorded. Awaiting orders.”

“Stand by, Lieutenant Commander,” a communications officer replied.

She turned back toward Adamae, “To being called by my title.”

“What would you—?”

“Lang, just call me ‘Lang.’ We’re going to be seeing each other enough that anything else is simply more aggravating than it’s worth.” She scurried away to give orders to a few engineers working on an auxiliary engine.

It wasn’t long before word came down from the Bridge to ready warp drive. Engineering erupted in a flourish of workers pulling levers and checking input/output levels. Moments later, warp drive kicked in, and the Orion lunged forward. An upper level engineer counted aloud the warp stages. “Warp seven. Holding steady at warp seven.”

“Punch it to warp eight!” Lang called out to them, walking back over to Adamae. “Our cargo is perishable and desperately needed. Senzo wants us there ASAP.”

“Can the Orion handle warp eight?” Adamae asked in a low voice.

Lang smiled, “She sure as hell can. We can do warp nine, too, but the wear and tear just isn’t worth it.”

“That’s better than most of the other starships…” the new recruit pointed out.

“Yes, yes it is,” Lang grinned.


	8. Laboratory

It took over three days to get to the outermost Earth colony. Noah leaned on a bed in Sickbay, nervously tapping his fingers on the edge. He really was going to go down to the planet, wasn’t he? His first alien planet.

He gulped. “It’ll be okay,” he told himself quietly, closing his eyes. “It’s fine.”

Across the room, someone cleared his throat. Noah looked up to see the Chief Medical Officer at the door. “It’s time, Ensign,” he said in a deep voice, “They could use some help in cargo bay four.”

“Yes, sir.” He walked slowly past the man and forced a smile.

It didn’t take nearly long enough to find the right area of the ship. The cargo bay was several levels tall, and much larger than he imagined. Inside, several dozen workers, including pretty much all of the new recruits, were busy collecting the various supplies and moving them onto carts or attaching anti-gravity lifts. Higher ranking officers barked orders and directed traffic, and each operating department worked in smaller groups to get things accomplished as swiftly and efficiently as possible.

He navigated through the flow of people, finding his way past the rations, farming equipment, and building supplies to the medicines. They lay fairly untouched thus far, sitting on a cooling pad at the center of the room. He stood awkwardly for a moment, waiting for someone to give him an order. When none came, he abruptly grabbed an anti-grav lift and attached it securely to one end of a large box. A second went to the other end to balance it. He checked it over twice more before turning the lifts on. It rose a few inches off the other boxes. He carefully moved the box waist-high, and walked it over to the nearest high-ranking officer.

“Medical supplies,” he said to the woman—Chief Engineer Zhou—who was directing a number of her underlings as they attempted to collect all the necessary parts of a large piece of farm equipment.

“Yeah, I don’t have someone on that, yet. Hold tight.” She didn’t even look at him.

He straightened his back, “Uh, I can do it,” he said too softly for her to notice. “Sir, I can do it,” he repeated, much louder this time.

She raised an eyebrow. “Oh?”

He looked down at the ground, but lifted his head again, “Y-yes, sir! It’s just a few boxes, and then I guess we bring the cooling pad, too? Just let me know when I can start bringing it all to the transport room.”

She laughed, “Okay, hold on.” She slipped her communicator off of her waistband and brought it up to her mouth, surveying the scene before her. “David, are we a go for the medical supplies? They’re ready to be brought up.”

“Uh, well, how’s the farm equipment looking?” said the voice on the other line.

She scoffed, “It’s gonna be awhile.”

“All right. Bring ‘em up. I’ll notify the landing party to clear a spot.”

Zhou closed her communicator and smiled at him, “Go on. Double time it—they’re waiting.”

He turned on one heel, pushing the box through the air. The trip went quickly enough, and he carefully set the box down on the transporter platform before collecting the anti-grav components. With a smile on his face, he returned to the cargo bay.

On his way in, he locked eyes with a new communications ensign, “You!” he pointed, “Has anyone given you orders, yet?”

He shook his head.

“Good. I’ve got a job for you.” Noah walked the large muscular man over to the boxes and pointed. “Attach the anti-grav lifts securely to any and all containers on top, okay? Be careful, though, a lot of this stuff’s breakable.”

The guy stared at him for a moment before beginning his tasks. Noah left him to find another ensign, this time an older African woman who had not graduated with him. She set about the task quickly. He joined them, attaching several lifts to a large diagnostic computer. When they had a veritable fleet of floating medical supplies, they walked them out of the cargo bay and toward the transport room.

En route, however, some of the lifts began to sound high-pitched alarms. Noah turned abruptly to see the communications officer frantically moving his hands across two of the boxes. He sprinted over, pushed the large man out of the way, and quickly tightened the clasps of the first box. The second—a container of fragile vaccinations—was already slipping, and he dove under to catch it, just barely stopping it from hitting the ground.

He sat on the hallway floor for a few moments, cradling the important package like a nearly harmed infant. He waited until his heart rate slowed before reaching out for the lifts and attaching them properly on the box.

Standing, “If this medicine had fallen, you would’ve killed people,” he sneered. “Go back to cargo bay. Tell your supervisor that I dismissed you, and tell him exactly why.”

The guy opened his mouth to object, but he closed it. “Yes, sir.”

Noah and the other ensign made quick work of the rest of the supplies and the cooling pad. Letting out a sigh, he transported down to the planet with them.

A local doctor and several assistants were already moving the supplies by hand, and many of the locals had lined up to receive vaccinations or small procedures. Noah opened a container. He produced a never-before-used, empty hypospray and popped in a vaccine cartridge.

“All right, raise your hand if you’re here for a vaccine,” Noah called to them. About two-thirds did so. “Let’s start with Arenthian flu. If you haven’t already had it and want to be vaccinated, come here.”

Seven of the two dozen walked over. He immediately pressed the tool against the first person’s clothed arm, administered a shot of high-powered air, popped out the empty cartridge, and refilled it. Each person got a similar treatment, before he moved on to another box of vaccines.

He treated patients for hours until darkness. When he finally stopped, he’d worked his way through every type of vaccine beamed down. Hundreds of patients were now safe from all sorts of horrible illnesses and parasites. His hands were numb and sore. His feet ached from standing, and his neck felt too weak to hold up his head. Shaking, he slipped the hypospray back into his medical kit and turned—

—to see Adamae, the Vulcan engineering recruit who absolutely despised him.

He snorted, “You know, I’m just not in the mood.”

She shook her head “I’m not looking to pick a fight, Ensign,” she said plainly. To his surprise, she didn’t look angry or annoyed.

“That’s a change,” he walked tenderly over to her.

Narrowing her eyes, “Lang—Lieutenant Commander Zhou—said you were behind expediting the medical supplies. You mobilized other officers, promoted efficiency, and helped these people. That was well above and beyond the scope and requirements of your current position on the Orion.”

He winced. Did she always talk like that? Convey emotion in as cold and emotionless terminology as possible? It made his head hurt. Still, it was a compliment. “Uh, thanks. It needed to be done.”

She gave a nod of approval. “You’re tired. You should return to the ship to rest. I will instruct the doctor here regarding the remaining supplies.”

Noah couldn’t agree more. He forced a slight grin, picked up his communicator, and signaled the transport room to bring him back. He collapsed into his bed soon after.


	9. Oxidation

A sudden jolt. Her head slammed against the table in her quarters. She’d fallen asleep studying again. She moaned, rubbing her forehead. “Damnit.”

It took a second for Adamae to fully wake up. Red light. The ship was on red alert. “What?!” She scrambled out of her chair and stumbled over to her bed. Stripping down to her underwear, she quickly slid into a fresh uniform and smoothed down her hair. Another strong jolt knocked her off her feet. A hit. Wait… a hit?! Was the Orion being fired upon?

On the floor of her bedroom, she clung to the edge of her bed. Two more hits shook the room. Standing carefully she held onto the wall and inched toward the door. It opened. From the hallway, she could hear a repeating message from the Bridge: “All hands to your stations. All hands to your stations. Unassigned civilians should report to the landing bay immediately. This is not a training exercise. All hands to your stations immediately. All hands—”

The hair on the back of her neck rose. As an afterthought, she dashed back into her quarters for her only possessions. Grabbing her weapon—still in its soft case—she slung it over her back. Her digital notebook followed, going into an outside pocket of the case.

Adamae darted out into the hallway, and into chaos. Crewmen and officers alike sprinted past her in all directions. To her right, the far end of the hallway was dark. Smoke billowed out from a room there, and it looked as though some of the walls were buckling. A kid who had to have been her age or younger attempted to rush past her in that direction, but she grabbed him by the collar and pulled him back. “Not that way!” she warned. “Look at the walls,” she pointed. “They won’t hold for much longer.”

The brown eyes that looked up at her were wild with absolute terror. She pulled him down the other end of the hall, but he fought her every step of the way. She shook him, but he clawed at her arm. “Stop fighting!” she ordered. He wrenched himself away, shot her an angry glare, and ran toward the unstable area. She watched him disappear into darkness.

She tried not to panic. Crewmen and women rushed passed her, but she kept her pace at a brisk stride. Stopping near an elevator, she pressed a button on the wall, “Computer, engineering status. Critical damage report: engine efficiency, shields, weapons—all pertinent information.”

“ _Working…_ ”

Another hit threw her back against the far wall and held her there for an instant before she slid to the floor. Springing up again, “Computer, I need that status report!”

“ _Damage catastrophic. Shields are non-functional. Warp drive is non-functional, with severe damage to engineering sectors. Impulse power functional at seventy-eight percent efficiency. Hull damage of varying severity significant on bow and port sides. Complete loss of power on levels eight through ten. Loss of life support systems in multiple sectors. Structural integrity compromised—_ ”

Clinging to the wall, “Casualties?”

“ _Insufficient data._ ”

“Give me an estimate.”

“ _Working… Estimated current casualty rate is sixty to sixty-five percent and increasing._ ”

She didn’t have the heart to ask how many of those were deaths. Instead, “Is—is Lieutenant Commander Zhou still alive?”

“ _Captain Lang Zhou is living._ ”

Her knees buckled beneath her. Captain?! What about the other officers above her…? Commodore Senzo, First Officer Wells, and the other, more senior Lieutenant Commanders? “Computer...” she practically squeaked, her breath catching in her chest, “why did Lang Zhou’s title change?”

“ _All more senior officers are listed as casualties._ ”

Adamae’s head pounded and felt clouded. Dizziness crept in. After a moment of confusion, she listened carefully for the air filtration system and found it silent. The level’s life support systems had failed, and she was breathing what was left of the stagnant oxygen. She was out of time. “Where is… Captain Zhou?” she tried to keep her breathing at a minimum.

“ _Level three._ ”

She struggled to her feet. Her muscles ached. The lights began to blink above her, and the looping instructions to report to assigned stations skipped eerily before going silent. “Is the… is the elevator… oper-operative?” she stuttered.

“ _Yes, the elevat—_ ” the rest was lost in static.

Good enough. She closed the distance as quickly as possible, tumbling into the elevator as the hallway went dark. She grabbed onto one of the handles. Gasping, “Three… Level three!”

The door couldn’t close fast enough. Once moving, the elevator’s separate life support system pumped air into the compartment. She coughed, watching as the light russet color returned to her hands. She felt like crying. Catastrophic damage. Hundreds dead. Survival questionable.

But, Lang was still alive, and in command. She took hold of that thought and clasped it tightly—focused on it and tried to clear everything else away.

The third level came too quickly. The door opened, and she peered out into an empty hall. The air and lights were working. She gulped, fear creeping in. After a few moments of hesitation, she reminded herself that the elevator was far less likely to be safe, and that she didn’t have the necessary experience to fix it should it break with her inside.

Adamae slowly crawled out and straightened. She adjusted the strap of her case to balance it across her back. “Lang!” she called out. No answer. She decided the main hallway would be the best route to begin with, and then she could zigzag back through the tertiary areas.

When faced with the decision to run or walk, she chose to run. Sprinting, she sucked the clean air into her lungs as she went along. “Lang!” she called at every intersection. “Lang, are you here?!”

She cleared half the floor before an answer echoed toward her, “Adamae?!” She ran toward the sound, taking corners sharply. Skidding to a stop, she couldn’t be happier to see her boss.

The woman crouched near an electrical panel, surrounded by wires and motherboards that had been pulled out from the guts of the ship like the innards of a gourd. Her eyes remained fixed on the task at hand: the soldering together of two bundles of wires. She wore no protective gear of any kind—not even gloves. Her hair was matted and falling almost completely out of her ponytail. Her uniform had been ripped at the shoulder, exposing a large patch of her arm, which was scuffed and bruised. A line of blood had streaked down the side of her cheek, smeared, and dried. Her hands shook as she finished the task.

She looked up finally, and produced a faint smile, “Adamae, it’s good to see you.”

Kneeling beside her, “What are you…?” But then it was obvious, “You’re restoring power to the ship.”

“They’re dying before they reach the shuttles,” Lang replied in monotones, “Tripping over each other…” Her face was pained, and her eyes stared off blankly. She paused. Then, “How much do you know about electrical work?”

“I-I—Show me what to solder.”

Lang looked around frantically for a moment, picking up wire tendrils, and tossing them aside. Eventually, she found two of merit and handed them to her, along with a tool to fuse them, and a pair of wire cutters. Adamae made quick work of them, and they repeated the process several times. The lights above them dimmed slightly as power was redistributed, but they stayed on.

It wasn’t long before they ran out of wire bundles. Seemingly angry, Lang shoved most of the guts back into the panel and shut it. She stood and wiped her hands across her uniform shirt. “You should try and get to Landing Bay,” she did not look at her, “Most of the shuttles have already gone.”

“Where will they go?”

“Other Federation starships. We sent out our first distress signal over an hour ago.”

“And, what? You’re going to go down with the ship?!” Adamae took a step forward.

Lang snorted, pushing her glasses back up the ridge of her nose, “I’m going to keep as much of her running as long as I can.”

“Then, I’ll help.”

“No, you won’t.” She turned and started walking down the hall toward the nearest elevator. “Go to Landing Bay.”

“Where are _you_ going?” Adamae followed the new Captain. When she didn’t immediately answer, “Lang?!”

“There’s another panel on level one.”

“I’ll help you.”

Lang swiveled and addressed her angrily, “I’m not going to let you get yourself killed!” she shouted, her voice breaking.

“I’m more durable than everyone else. With my help,” Adamae retorted right away, “we might be able to keep at least part of the ship running until help arrives.”

Her boss’ furious expression dissolved. She shot Adamae a look that showed quite clearly she considered the plan futile. They quickly entered the elevator and rode it up to the topmost level.

Unlike the Enterprise, a slightly smaller ship, the Orion’s first level was more than the Bridge and a few short halls. A large observation deck ringed the whole floor, and several key meeting rooms were located there. Being the top level, though, it was damaged significantly. The air smelled of burning starship—and blood. Emergency bulkheads had come down in several areas, meaning that the hull had been breached. Life support was back on, however, and Lang found the panel soon enough.

Adamae stood waiting for a command, but the revealed contents seemed even more chaotic than the last. She reasoned that it would be awhile before Lang had any to give and paced away. Most of the observation deck was damaged beyond any visibility outward, so it gave no indication of what menace, if any, still remained out in space. She went as far as a bulkhead before turning to double back.

A cry. She stopped in her tracks. Turning a corner, she sprinted down the main hallway. There—about where the entrance to the Bridge should have been—was First Officer Elizabeth Wells, trapped under a significant part of the ceiling and inner hull, and lying in her own blood. She moaned and moved her head slightly. Watching over her was a bloodied young medical officer with a hyposyringe resting loosely in his hand.

“Noah,” the young engineer said quietly.

He looked up, his eyes red. He sniffed, “Adamae, hey.”

“How did you—?”

He rubbed his nose with the back of his hand, “The, uh, Chief Medical Officer. He brought me up to the Bridge to help schedule examinations, and then we were attacked.  I left to help the wounded. He stayed behind,” he burst into tears. She took a few steps closer. He wiped at his eyes, but the tears kept coming. “It’s gone!” he sobbed. “And everyone who was in it. The Bridge is completely destroyed.”

Commodore Senzo, most of the other high ranking officers…

“But Wells is alive,” she spoke without thinking.

He scoffed. “Define ‘alive.’”

Adamae looked over at the woman. One arm twitched uncontrollably, while the other shakily moved across the floor, examining her surroundings. One of her eyes was swollen shut, and blood oozed from her mouth. Her one working eye moved around the room and seemed to fix on various points—but the newcomer had no idea if anything was truly being processed. The wreckage began at the bottom edge of Wells’ ribcage, and there could be no doubt that everything under it was crushed. She moaned again.

Noah’s whole body shook, “I gave her the maximum dose of pain reliever. She’s not in pain,” he assured her. “She’s just _—_ uncomfortable _—_ and, I think, confused.”

“What’s that shot for, then?” she said right away.

He grasped the hyposyringe more tightly and glared at her. “I can’t leave her here like this.”

“What’s the shot for, Noah?” she pressed.

“If I leave, the pain meds will wear off,” he continued. “She’s going to die, one way or another, but this way…”

“It won’t hurt?”

He shook his head. “She won’t even feel it.”

“Do it,” she ordered.

His lip quivered, “I...” but he changed his mind. “Yeah.” He inched closer to the woman, produced a medical scanner, and waved it over her. He frowned. Hesitating a few moments longer, he pressed the syringe up against her arm, looked the other way, and injected her with it. It wasn’t long before she ceased moving.

He abruptly put his equipment away and stood. His blue shirt was stained a dark red, and it was all over his arms and neck. Adamae looked him up and down to see if he was injured, but decided that the blood belonged to First Officer Wells’. He walked past her before pausing. “I’ve never lost anyone before, let alone killed them.”

“No offense, but I hope you get to live long enough to have it happen again.”

Noah grimaced. “What are you doing here, anyway?”

“The Orion may not be salvageable, but maybe we can keep alive on it long enough for reinforcements to get here.”

He laughed, “You’re kidding.”

“No. We’re redistributing power—”

“They’re going to board us, damnit. Klingons always do. We’re dead in the water here, and there’s nothing we can do to stop them.”

“Klingons?!”

“Yeah, who did you think attacked us? They staked out this part of space. Their leader claimed to be some sort of rogue or dissenter, but they have a large military ship, and they fired on us before we even knew they were there.” The light above him flickered, and his face looked much older in the darkened space.

Adamae was genuinely afraid. While dying of suffocation or cold or being blown out into the vacuum of space was far from preferable, dying at the hands of the enemy—or worse, taken captive—was a horrifying prospect. “We need weapons,” she said quickly, walking past him in Lang’s direction.

He followed her. Lang had already done most of the work necessary in Adamae’s absence. She gave an unreadable look at Noah, who nodded. Adamae pulled the case off her back and opened it. The lightweight, titanium blade, formed into a one-sided axe, practically glowed in the light. The weapon was one solid piece of metal, with the handle covered in synthetic black leather. A faint, swirling pattern was engraved up the length of it—an addition paid for by her combat trainer as a gift for graduation.  She took hold of it in one hand, near the top of the leather. The curved, razor-sharp blade dangled next to her leg. The case and the digital notebook inside were handed over to Noah for safe keeping, and he took it without a word of objection.

“We need phasers,” she said simply. “Which floor?”

“The level five armory is closest,” Lang replied.

“Let’s go.”

They went by elevator, where Adamae left the two to fend for themselves. Once there, she took five standard-issue, Type Two phaser guns, latching two onto her waistband and carrying the rest. She handed one to Noah and two to Lang. Noah looked at his, “I only took the most basic training. I’m no marksman.”

She took hold of his weapon and pressed it against his neck, holding his hand over the trigger. “You think you could hit this?” she growled.

“Adamae!” Lang shouted.

“Use the weapon on yourself if it looks like you’ll be captured,” she let him go. “Both of you.”

“What are you gonna do?” Noah sneered.

“They won’t show any mercy, I can guarantee it, and neither will I.”

The empty elevator closed and went down. Adamae’s heart raced. It was incredibly unlikely that any Orion crewmembers were responsible. She wondered if there were even any others left alive. It was, however, quite likely that the Klingons had scanned the ship for survivors and knew exactly where to find them. “Go!” she ordered, gesturing down the hallway. “Find some place to hide.” The two hurried past her and out of sight as the elevator returned.

She backed up a few steps and pointed one of the phasers, set to kill, at the elevator door. As it opened, she fired, hitting one Klingon soldier and killing him instantly. A second met the same fate. There were nine in total, though, and the survivors immediately returned fire.

Adamae ducked down a small corridor, turned a corner, and prepared to fire again. The Klingons, decked in heavy and ornamental armor and large in stature, had to proceed single-file through the tight space. The first one to follow her through didn’t get a chance to fire before she hit him. He fell with a thud to the ground, and she could smell burned flesh. The next was right behind him, however, and a swipe of a heavy bat'leth blade knocked the gun from her hand. Reacting just in time, she blocked with her axe. She let out an involuntary gasp as the Klingon’s full force came down hard, the two pieces of metal clashing.

The muscles in her arms threatened to give way. She pushed his weapon off, backing up. The soldier—his face covered in battle scars—grinned as he eyed up his enemy. He was stronger by far and more comfortable in battle. She was outnumbered, too. She took another step back. Behind her, two more Klingons approached. At least three more were somewhere on the same level, likely looking for other survivors. Her usually calm heartbeat pounded.

A second phaser was still at her waist, but she didn’t dare reach for it. So long as she kept to her blade, perhaps they would keep to theirs—being warriors of honor, of course. She tilted her head slightly to get a good look at the other two.  One was similarly equipped with a bat’leth, while the other had a flimsier long blade, the name of which escaped her. She backed up again, moving closer to the third Klingon, but still facing the first.

“You should leave,” she spoke loudly.

They laughed.

Enough stalling. She advanced forward, slashing wildly. The Klingon blocked, as she anticipated. Abruptly, she turned and ran full force at the third warrior, swiping low and connecting with his stomach. She swung back and brought the blade down, knocking his weapon away. His other arm came out of nowhere, and his fist connected with her jaw. She flew off her feet and landed painfully on her back. She rolled, swiping her axe at the legs of the second Klingon, and cutting enough flesh to stop him from advancing.

She kicked the third soldier’s sword out of his reach and sprung up at him, lodging her weapon deeply in his neck. Bright, reddish purple blood spewed from the wound, drenching the second warrior and covering her axe. He went down, still struggling. She pulled the blade out and turned, throwing it with all of her force at the second Klingon. It landed in his forehead and knocked him to the ground. Pulling her phaser up in one fluid motion, she pointed it at the first Klingon, who halted immediately.

“Put the weapon down,” she ordered, breathing heavily. He slowly obliged. After a moment, “Why did you attack the Orion?”

“Kill me,” he snarled.

“I won’t ask again.”

He snarled, “The Klingon Empire tolerates Federation movements in this star system even though it rightfully belongs to us!” he pounded his fist on his chest, “It has grown weak and complacent. The Federation will know our true strength in spite of the Empire’s cowardice.”

Adamae opened her mouth to retort, but an object flew through the air between them in a blur. She reacted by blocking, but the item—a small knife—found its way into her arm. Growling, she fired at him, hitting multiple times. He fell. She shot the bodies of the other two Klingons for good measure. Trembling, she reluctantly looked down at the knife. Pain seared up her arm from it, and her dark blood soaked into her uniform. Rehooking the phaser on her waistband, she took hold of the handle, closed her eyes, exhaled, and pulled.

She cried out. The dagger dropped from her hand and clanged as it hit the floor. She ripped a sash off of one of the bodies, tying it around the wound. Her body was weak with pain and fatigue, and she just wanted to rest awhile. But that was not an option. Recovering her axe and picking up her other phaser, she set about searching the level for her companions as quietly and quickly as possible.


	10. Data Points

The officer’s lounge was an optimal place to hide, as it had multiple doors and large pieces of furniture to obstruct views. The two crouched behind a large sofa, where they could not be seen from two of the three doors. Even if a Klingon entered the room, it was possible that they still would not be detected.

Luck, however, was not with them, and footsteps could soon be heard outside the third door. Zhou crawled away from their spot, moving behind a table. Noah did not react so quickly, and the door opened before he could move. He yelped, instinctively pointing the phaser at the intruder and firing. The creature slumped forward, a look of complete surprise on his face.

Noah had killed him.

Zhou reappeared, grabbing the medic by the collar of his shirt and forcing him to his feet. They darted out of the room at the far end and raced down the hall. Tucked into a doorway, Noah watched as Zhou began attacking one of her phasers with a pair of pliers. She looked down the hallway repeatedly as she went along, and she bit down on her lip. “When they find us, we’re going to surrender,” she told him. He wanted to object, but he told himself to trust her. Her hands stopped moving over the device and did not resume until they heard the sounds of approaching Klingons. Not an instant later, the phaser began making a wailing noise that increased in loudness as time went on. This, of course, quickened the pace of the Kingons, who now knew exactly where they were.

The Captain slipped the gun onto her waist carefully and put her hands into the air. Noah followed suit. The two Klingons stopped several paces away and pointed their weapons at them.

“What is noise?!” said one with a thick accent. “What is?!”

Zhou stayed calm. “The energy’s depleted. It’s empty. I don’t know how to shut it off.”

“Get on knees!” he ordered.

“We don’t want any trouble,” Zhou continued. “Take our weapons!” She slowly reached down to the noisy phaser. “Take our weapons,” she repeated. As she took hold of it, Noah could see it burn her hand. She tossed it at them, and it skidded to their feet. “Run,” she growled from behind clenched teeth. When he didn’t immediately move, “Run!”

They turned and fled as fast as possible. The Klingons spoke something in their native language that neither human understood. The two only made it a few meters before the explosion, which picked them both up and tossed them like dolls down the hallway.

It was several moments before his hearing returned and a few more before Zhou regained consciousness. She let out a whimper, her injured hand quaking violently. He immediately reached into his medical kit and produced a hypospray, filled it with an anti-pain cartridge, and sprayed her hand at low intensity. He replaced it with a burn salve, sprayed, and repeated the process with an antibiotic. She stayed on the floor next to him, breathing slowly. “Do you have any other injuries?” he asked in barely a whisper. “Does it hurt anywhere?”

She shook her head. “Just some bumps and bruises, I think.”

He gently rested one hand on her head and smoothed her hair back. She closed her eyes. He took hold of his phaser nervously and looked around. The explosion had ripped a hole in the floor, destroyed the nearby walls, and caused a partial cave-in from the level above. Pressed up against the edge of the ship, he only needed to watch to his right and left, though he had zero confidence that he could do any sort of protecting.

Luckily, the next figure that appeared was Adamae. She walked sluggishly, dragging her axe along the floor. Her right arm was severely injured, the sleeve soaked in dark, almost brownish blood, and tied off with a cloth of some kind. Along her jaw was a greenish bruise, and she moved stiffly in general. When she reached them, she leaned on the blade to remain standing. “How many did you kill?” she asked quickly.

“Three,” Noah replied eventually. “Two in the explosion. One with my phaser right before.”

Zhou picked her head up and looked at Adamae. “Is that all of them?”

The Vulcan sighed, “I’m not sure. Nine came up to this level, but there could be dozens more on the ship. We should disengage the elevators as soon as possible.”

Nodding, Zhou slowly sat up. Noah helped her to her feet. They followed Adamae to the nearest elevator, but found it already broken. The one both they and the Klingon’s used was quickly dispatched by the two engineers, as were two more. All that was left to do was wait.

 

*

 

Kirk could hardly stay in his chair. Every minute that passed was agony. It was worse in the beginning—the moment that they learned the attacked ship was the Orion but didn’t know their exact location. However, communications with the ship had completely gone dead hours ago, and he couldn’t help but fear the worst.

“Estimated time of arrival, two minutes, Captain,” Sulu broke the silence of the Bridge.

“Put the forward view on screen,” he said quietly, resting his chin in his hand. “Red alert. Shields up.”

He shot a look over at Spock, who sat with his arms between his knees. He was hunched over, and his gaze remained locked on the screen. His face was emotionless, but his posture said it all. He feared his daughter dead. Kirk couldn’t bear the thought, but it was on the minds of everyone on the Bridge.

 Bones appeared through a door to his side, just as the Enterprise kicked out of warp drive. He gasped.

What was left of the USS Orion lay in pieces across the screen. Hull breaches dotted the disk, and much of it was scorched and blackened. One warp engine was completely torn off and the other damaged beyond repair. In the far left corner, a large Klingon warship sat like a vulture.

“The USS Cabot and Monterey have arrived as well, sir. They are engaging the Klingon ship.” Uhura noted. “I am also receiving several calls from Orion shuttles. They request access to our Landing Bay, Captain.”

“Granted. Let’s get them aboard as quickly as possible.”

“What’s the survivor count?” Bones asked immediately.

Uhura hesitated.  Kirk looked over at her, giving a nod. She gulped, “Ninety, sir.”

“Ninety?!” the doctor shouted. “Out of what? Four hundred?!”

“Five,” Spock corrected.

“Damnit, for God’s sake, ask them if Adamae’s aboard!” Bones leaned on the railing in Uhura’s direction.

She did so. Her face contorted in sadness, “They say she isn’t.” She turned to Spock, “I’m so sorry.”

He didn’t acknowledge her, and instead kept his eyes trained on the Orion. Bones and the rest of the crew grew absolutely silent. Kirk stood and walked up to the screen. He studied it for a few long moments. In the background, the outnumbered Klingon vessel flew into warp drive and fled, with the other two starships hot on its tail.

“Do a scan of the Orion,” Kirk said finally. “There could be more survivors.”

When Spock didn’t move to perform the scan, Chekov walked over and did it for him. “Searching for all life forms, Keptain.” After a moment of intense waiting, “Oh!” he looked up from the scanner, “Zere are three on level five and ten on level fourteen.” He paused and turned a dial. His face changed. “Ze ten are Klingons.”

“Transfer the coordinates to the transport room. We’ll beam the three aboard directly.” He started to walk toward the door.

“And the Klingons, Captain?” Sulu asked.

He paused. “We can’t leave the Orion and its technology here for Federation enemies. When the three are successfully transported, fire photon torpedoes on the damaged ship. Don’t stop until there’s nothing left.”

Kirk departed abruptly. Bones and Spock followed close behind, and the trio took the elevator down to the transport room. They arrived just in time. “Beaming them aboard now, sir,” said the transport tech.

As three blue lights flooded onto the platform, Kirk held his breath. If anyone could survive—if anyone could make it—

The first face he could discern was a young male with round, blue-grey eyes. He smiled widely as the ship came into view. Then, a familiar figure to the boy’s left appeared, as did a taller woman behind them. Adamae looked around slowly, her mouth ajar and smiling. Her expresssion was of astonishment as her dark eyes trained on the Enterprise officers. She was otherwise a mess. Her arm appeared injured severely, and she leaned on a bloodied weapon like a cane. When the transport beams cleared, her legs ceased holding her up. She fainted into the arms of the boy, who Kirk now realized was a medical officer.

Bones rushed over. Spock made a move to join him, but stopped. Kirk turned to him, “Go on,” he whispered.

Uncomfortable, but determined, Spock walked slowly over and knelt by Adamae. He looked up at Bones, who waved a medical scanner over her. “She’s lost a lot of blood,” he said gravely, inspecting a blood soaked heavy bandage. He glanced over at the kid, “Did you wrap this?” he asked.

The medic nodded quickly. “She barely let me touch it, but the thing she had on before wasn’t really helping.”

“About as stubborn as her father, eh?” he snorted. “She’d probably be dead if you hadn’t changed it.” The boy smiled again. “Get help down here,” Bones continued, “She’ll live, but we’ll need some help getting her to Sickbay.”

When assistance came, the whole group followed, keeping a watchful eye on Adamae. Once they reached Sickbay, Adamae’s sleeve and bandages were cut away to reveal a deep wound. Bones applied an autosuture device to it. Kirk watched with awe as the blood flow ceased and the wound closed before his eyes. Bones gave her something for pain. “She’ll need rest,” he declared, “but I expect a full recovery.”

Nearby, the boy sat the other woman down on a bed and was attending to a burn on her hand. Bones raised an eyebrow at that, but said nothing. Spock took a seat next to Adamae, and seemed to study her. Kirk patted him on the shoulder before leaving to return to the Bridge.

 

*

 

Of the ninety-three survivors, nearly thirty required immediate medical attention. Sickbay wasn’t equipped to handle that many people (and in some cases their worrying colleagues). There simply weren’t enough beds. Those that were able to sit upright during procedures were made to do so, and those that could not be accommodated on beds were laid out on gurneys in all free space available.

Noah worked for hours without stopping. He treated every injury imaginable, though most were broken bones, cuts, and blunt force traumas. The Enterprise’s Chief Medical Officer handled most of the internal bleeds and anything involving intensive surgery. The ship’s whole medical staff reported at once to deal with the flood of people. Noah, however, was the only member of the Orion’s medical department still alive. His more tailored uniform, pleated at the sides and covered in blood, made him stick out from the rest.

It wasn’t until the head doctor, Leonard McCoy, caught him nodding off over a patient that Noah was relieved of duty. He apologized, but the man simply shook his head and pushed him toward the door.

Once outside, he took a seat against one of the walls, rested his head in his hands, and closed his eyes. In the chaos, no one had provided him with any indication of where he would be sleeping, if a place was even available. He fell asleep before he could think about it further.


	11. Chemistry

He was shaken awake by a careful hand. Looking up sleepily, he saw the weary face of Doctor McCoy.  “By god,” he said quietly, crouching unsteadily in front of him. “What are you doing out here?” His hand slipped off of the kid’s shoulder.

Noah blinked, “I’m tired.”

“Well, why the hell aren’t you in bed?”

“I don’t have one, sir.”

He stood and offered his hand, “Get up.”

Noah did so stiffly. The man left him there briefly and flagged down a security officer. He asked where Noah’s accommodations could be found, and the officer said that neither had any been issued, nor were there any available. The doctor looked as though he would hit the red-shirted officer, but he changed his mind and merely scolded him. Marching back over, he motioned for Noah to follow him.

They walked for a long time in silence before stopping at a door. It opened to a large officer’s quarters, and McCoy walked in. Noah followed. The spacious living area, which held multiple rooms, was lit more warmly than much of the rest of the ship. Personal items were sparse, but it didn’t take long for the young officer to realize who owned the room. “These are your quarters, Doctor?” he said finally.

McCoy turned and smiled, pulling a pillow out of a compartment across the room and tossing it onto the bed. An extra blanket received the same treatment. He gestured toward the bed, “It’s all yours.”

“I couldn’t…” he protested.

“Nonsense. Do you think I’m giving you a choice? This is a medical order.”

Noah stared at him for a few moments before going over to the bed, sitting down, and kicking off his boots.

“Well, that’s more like it. Ring me in Sickbay if you need anything, and get some food in your stomach, too.” He departed without another word.

Noah looked around for awhile and cracked a smile. One day, he would have quarters this big! With that thought in his mind, he fell back onto the bed and drifted into sleep once more.

 

*

 

When he awoke hours later, a clean, Enterprise-style uniform in roughly his size sat folded on the edge of the bed. A plate of Starship-manufactured fruits, vegetables, and proteins waited nearby with a note attached that read “Take your damned time.”

He slid off of the bed and devoured the food. Once full, he stripped down to nothing and hopped in the shower. Some of the blood that had soaked into his uniform was still stained onto his skin. He couldn’t be happier to finally wash it off. Clean and refreshed, Noah donned the new uniform and left Doctor McCoy’s quarters.

Sickbay was much quieter now. All injured Orion survivors that needn’t remain there had been moved elsewhere, leaving only four who were either unconscious or heavily sedated. Adamae was gone, as were nearly all of the medical crewmembers. McCoy lingered, sitting quietly at a computer station in his office. Noah smiled when he saw him and knocked on the wall to announce his presence.

McCoy swiveled in his chair. He studied Noah carefully to make sure he was well-rested. “Get enough sleep?” he asked.

“Sure.” The word hung in the air for a long, agonizing silence.

The doctor gave a slight grin and turned back to his computer screen, “Well, everything’s taken care of here, so you could probably join the others.”

Noah nodded and made to leave, but he stopped. Turning, “It’s so quiet in here now.”

Without looking at him, “When you get to be my age, you’ll learn that quiet is usually a good thing.”

“Oh, c’mon!” he retorted, “You’re not that old.”

He scoffed. “Old enough.”

Noah walked into the office and slipped into a chair across from McCoy. Leaning forward, “You don’t look it.”

He rubbed his temples, looking annoyed. “Damnit, what are you after?” he asked over his shoulder.

Noah’s smile disappeared. “What?”

McCoy glared at him.

After a long pause, the young officer smiled again. “I’m serious. I don’t think you look old at all.” He leaned back in the chair, holding onto the edge. The cloth of his new shirt, slightly oversized, fell past his knuckles.

The doctor was not impressed.

Undeterred, “You don’t think so?”

“I have work to do,” he practically sneered.

“You should take a break,” Noah rose to his feet and rested his weight on the computer station. “Who orders you to get some rest, anyway?” he laughed.

He smiled just a little. “That’s a good question.”

“There you go! Yeah, you don’t look old at all when you smile.”

More smiling. He looked away bashfully.

Noah bit his lip. Then, “It’s cute.”

When McCoy turned in surprise, Noah leaned forward suddenly. He led with his lower lip and firmly planted a kiss on the Senior Medical Officer. He climbed on top of the unsuspecting man, pushing him back into his chair. Arching his back, he ran his hand down McCoy’s arm—

—and was promptly kicked to the floor.

He writhed, holding his lower back and groaning. “Fuck,” he exclaimed.

McCoy sat motionless, the back of his hand resting on his mouth. His eyes were wide, and he looked angry. This was not the desired response.

“What the hell was that?!” he spat finally.

“I just—”

“No, I know what this is,” he interrupted. “This is you trying to buy a good recommendation or some sort of… damned…”

“Fuck you,” Noah growled, but his anger at such a slanderous accusation quickly turned to disappointment. He sniffed. Tears welled up despite his best efforts to the contrary. “Yesterday,” he slowly got up and put some distance between them. “Yesterday, I was dead.”

McCoy’s face changed—softening a little—but he said nothing.

“I had to kill somebody, yesterday,” he continued, “as an act of mercy. I thought I was gonna die, too—or be captured, tortured—I mean, fuck! You name it. I had a good, long time to think about all the ways I was gonna die, all the ways people around me had already died, could have already died.”

He pressed his forehead against the wall, formed a fist, and hit it lightly. “I thought: I’m alive. I really made it out.” He looked over at McCoy. “And then, you were so nice to me—and you just have this lonely way about you. Kinda like you don’t got enough confidence or—or something.” He shrugged, “I figured, if I was gonna celebrate being alive, might as well do it with someone who could, who could really use it, you know?”

The Doctor looked down at his desk. He used it to stand and walked slowly over to Noah. “Are you all right?” he asked sheepishly.

McCoy reached out to check his back for injury, but Noah grabbed his wrist. Pulling it up, he forced it to come to rest on his cheek. He let go, but the hand stayed there. Eventually, his thumb began to move in a weak caress.

Noah looked into his bright blue eyes, “I’m gonna kiss you now, okay? You’re not gonna slug me or anything?”

“No, I won’t,” he whispered.

They met each other halfway. The kiss, light and gentle, made Noah’s skin tingle. He wrapped his arms around McCoy and pulled him closer. The man felt warm as he kissing him intensely and pressing himself against him. The back of Noah’s head touched the wall, followed by the rest of him. McCoy held him there, running one hand down his torso and kissing him. He pushed the young officer’s head to one side and kissed his neck with a measure of force that he didn’t expect.

His hand slipped between cloth and skin. Noah gasped. His fingers moved with surgical precision. It was absolute ecstasy. He had to cover his mouth to hide his noises.

McCoy tugged at Noah’s pants until the waistband fell past his thighs. Before he could move to stop him, the doctor dropped to his knees, took hold of him, and—“Oh god,” Noah exhaled. He gripped the cloth of McCoy’s shirt and bit his own index finger. He was good. Really good.

Just as Noah thought he could take no more, McCoy stopped. He stood slowly, keeping a keen eye on the medic. “Uh, you think you’re good enough to…”

Noah beamed, pulling the doctor close by his shirt. They kissed deeply. He led him over to the computer station and made short work of his pants. “You’re not worried someone will walk in?” he hesitated. The risk somehow excited him more.

McCoy squinted over at the door. “You damn-well better make it quick, then.”

“That’s no fun!” he pushed on McCoy’s back until he bent over, the palms of his worn hands flat on the table. Noah inched closer, brushing against the inside of McCoy’s leg. Taking only a moment to ensure a good angle and apply some surgical gel as makeshift lubricant, he pressed forward abruptly.

The Doctor let out a sharp sound of pain before clenching his teeth together. “God damnit, man!” he howled.

“Sorry!” he leaned forward, planting a light kiss on the man’s shoulder. He tried to be gentler, but the older man was immensely taut, so it didn’t make much difference. Better make it quick, then, he thought to himself, repeating McCoy’s words.

Holding onto him, he pushed forward again. He backed up and repeated the action. Faster. He could hear McCoy breathing heavily.

It didn’t take long for either of them. As Noah finished, McCoy was well on his way, and he was glad to help him along. In no time at all, both had climaxed. They parted. Rigid and a little pained, the doctor slowly reached for his pants and pulled them back up. Noah did the same, finding an antiseptic towel and wiping himself off methodically. He walked over to the man, who slid carefully into his chair. He gave him a long kiss on the cheek.

“Do you still feel old?” he asked in a whisper.

McCoy raised an eyebrow and laughed, shaking his head.

“Thought so.” Noah left, taking one last long look at the doctor before heading into the cool hallway.

Once outside, he tried to compose himself. He ran one hand through his hair and quickly pulled his shirt out from inside his waistband. When he looked up, Adamae stood a few steps away. She shot him a curious look before shuffling past him and into Sickbay. Noah stifled a laugh. He hoped McCoy had managed to fix himself up enough to avoid detection, but he highly doubted it. Wishing he could be there for such a humorous conversation, he reluctantly opted instead for a leisurely walk around the ship.


End file.
